


Til the End of the Line

by Tobi_Black



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies), X-Men (Original Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Norse Religion & Lore, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, BAMF Hela (Marvel), Baba Yaga the Cat, Beira (Celtic Queen of Winter) - Freeform, Bucky Barnes & Winter Soldier are Different Personalities, Canonical ASSUMED Major Character Death, Captain America: The First Avenger, Gen, Genderfluid Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes Uses ASL, Jorgumand (Norse Religion & Lore) - Freeform, M/M, Marvel Norse Lore, Minor Bucky Barnes/Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Slash, Senator Brandt's Aide | Alexander Pierce's Father, Steve Rogers Uses ASL, Steve Rogers is the Tiny Turtle of Justice, Strong Female Characters, The Grim | The Great Dog, The Morrigan - Freeform, The Tesseract (Marvel), Tony Stark's Mere Presence Upgrades Technology, Train Trauma, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, how to be the anti-thesis to magic; a novelette by the Солдат, how to date without dating; a novel, the Red Room's (Knock-Off) Super-Soldier Serum (of a Knock-Off), they were roomates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:02:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 34
Words: 114,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24552043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tobi_Black/pseuds/Tobi_Black
Summary: The most dangerous space in all the worlds was between Steve Rogers and James Barnes.The redone compilation of an older series of mine, all in one place.
Relationships: Abraham Erskine & Steve Rogers, Ana Barnes Jarvis & Howard Stark, Ana Barnes/Edwin Jarvis, Ancient One & Солдат, Charles Xavier & Jean Grey & Scott Summers & Ororo Munroe, Hela (Marvel) & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes & Erik Lehnsherr & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes & Grandpa Barnes, James "Bucky" Barnes & Hela, James "Bucky" Barnes & Howard Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes & Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes & Rebecca Barnes Proctor, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes & Winifred Barnes & Sarah Rogers & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes & Солдат, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Jarvis (Iron Man movies) & Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanov & Солдат, Nick Fury & Steve Rogers, Peggy Carter & Chester Phillips & Steve Rogers, Peggy Carter & Steve Rogers, Pepper Potts & Steve Rogers & Tony Stark, Rebecca Barnes Proctor & Charles Xavier, Rebecca Barnes Proctor & Steve Rogers, Sarah Rogers & Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Charles Xavier, Steve Rogers & Grandpa Barnes, Steve Rogers & Howard Stark, Timothy "Dum Dum" Dugan & Steve Rogers, Winifred Barnes & Sarah Rogers
Comments: 39
Kudos: 38





	1. [Waking Dreams] memory is more than a retelling of the past;

**Author's Note:**

> It's baaaaaaacccckkk~  
> And because honestly the hardest part of this 'verse was just figuring out what to call things - because they were all very deliberate - I'm just going to put it all in one fic. It's going to be epic. An epic. Because it got- longer.
> 
> Happy birthday to me, take my hobbit-ish gift!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: MCU is not MINE. I wish though.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Part One: Waking Dreams]  
> In the ice, Steve was alive - and he dreamed of memories, of the past. He dreamed of his life before Bucky had died, of what they'd had.  
> He remembered.
> 
> The Soldier remembered too.

_In the ice, Steve was aware, if in the vaguest sense._

_Mostly because he was_ cold _._

_(He could still vaguely hear the cracking of ice above him, and the creaking of metal shifting around him. He could still vaguely feel the water moving around him in the depths where he’d come to rest._

_And he could feel how his heart still beat, tortuously slow but strong and steady with a small eternity between._

_Because some part of him_ knew _he was still_ alive, _despite how it should be impossible.)_

 _He was aware; he was_ awake _, there beneath the ice, his mind drifting in dreams, in memories._

 _He_ remembered _not just the_ why _he had angled the plane into the freezing water – to save New York – but the_ intent _. He_ remembered _how forced the plane into a dive, as he asked Peggy for a rain check for that dance, how he could have bailed out the back just before impact. He_ remembered _choosing not to._

 _He_ dreamed _of how as he closed his eyes to the sight of the water, he was taken back to a sight from before the war. He_ dreamed _of how he opened that beaten-up off-white door, and saw Bucky as he had before Azzano, a smirk twisting his lips as he sat in their tiny kitchen. He_ dreamed _of how he ran a hand through slicked back hair, dark eyes bright with mischief, before standing, stalking through the small apartment to tower over him. He_ dreamed _of how Bucky smiled and said, “_ Stevie _”._

 _He_ remembered _how the_ cold _had enveloped him like a mother welcoming her child home, pulling him close; her nails digging sharply into his skin, arms holding too tight as his face was smothered into her chest as she whispered in his ear,_ you’re never leaving me.

 _He_ remembered _how it had felt for a numbness to spread through his body from his fingertips and toes to deep in his chest._

 _He_ dreamed _of how the heavy weight in his chest lightened even as his limbs went heavy, because it had only been a few weeks since Bucky- but it felt like an_ eternity _and when his fingers had slipped through his, his chest had been hollowed out and filled with cement._

_(His heart had stopped in his chest as Bucky had fallen-_

_It had only kept beating because his body was still alive, but he’d died there with him, he was_ sure _. He’d never thought he’d outlive Bucky, and never planned for it.)_

 _He_ remembered _how it had felt for his heart to slow down until everything just . ._ faded away _. Gone to a grey haze as darkness had swallowed him._

 _He_ remembered _the smile that had been on his lips at the thought of joining his best friend in death, not even a month after the abrupt train ride gone bad._

 _(It did not occur to him that he still_ lived _within the ice._

 _He happily relived memories and thought_ this is what happens between one heartbeat and the last; _thought_ the Morrigan will take me soon _._

 _It did not occur to him because he assumed that he just hadn’t heard the_ bean sidhe _’s scream amongst all the noise of a plane crashing into the ocean; that as his body went numb, he just did not feel the Morrigan’s talons catching in his soul and pulling it from his flesh._

_He had yet to realize that one would not wail for him, and the other would not come for him._

_He wouldn’t for a long time yet._

~

Most of his life, Steve had been told that it was a miracle that he was alive still.

That it had been a true _miracle_ that he had been born as early as he had been, that he had lived even a few hours after his birth, let alone as long as he had.

He _remembered_ many doctors telling his mother that it would be _kinder_ to just let him die young instead of giving him a lifetime of pain. He _remembered_ how she would say with a voice as cold as ice for them to leave them, to _get out_ , before she would curl around him on their bed, her thin arms wrapped tight around him and tucking him close to her chest as she glared murder.

He _remembered_ the many times in his first few years that she’d been told that she’d brought bad luck down on him for naming him right away, without even waiting the customary week so that when he inevitably died young, his soul could try again.

She’d _refused_ to let them give him misplaced mercy before he could even _try_ to live, not when he’d already fought the odds to be born. Not when she’d taken her blue-faced baby, and thumped him on the back herself – and he’d _screamed_. Her smile was always sharp as she _proudly_ told them of how he’d _screamed_ like he was proclaiming to all the worlds that he was _alive_ , and _fuck them_ , he _would_ live despite the odds.

He _remembered_ vague impressions of those early days, kept alive in an egg beneath a circus tent until he could live on his own, as she visited him each day telling him that if he wanted to _live_ , she would do whatever was necessary to _keep_ him alive. He _remembered_ her telling him that he should ignore whoever said that he should be _dead_ already, no matter times it was said, because he was _her_ son, and she _would_ see to it that he outlived her.

(And she had.)

He had never understood the whispers of surprise that followed them about how a watch-girl like her had managed to have a child when the others hadn’t after the War, but she’d always said it was because he was _determined_ to _be_ no matter how bad the odds were for his survival.

She would whisper in his ear as she tended to his wounds – when he’d been as thin as a post and barely to her above her knees; when he hardly came up to her shoulder, all gangly limbs – after he came home following a beating for trying to stop bullies, unable to stand down when he through there was injustice in front of him, that he was like _fire_.

He _remembered_ taking those words to heart, because even if his life was going to be _short_ , then he would _live_ with that fire burning _bright_ as the _sun_.

Because of that – because of how sick he often was, his body fighting against him, bruising like a peach and wheezing like an old man after a brisk walk – because wherever he went, trouble followed – the other kids didn’t come banging down his door wanting to be friends. Or at least ones that would look at _him_ , look _past_ all that, and _stick around_.

He met the _one who would_ when he was seven.

That day, he’d been a few blocks from home when he’d spotted a bigger boy, thrice his size and twice his age, picking on a boy about his age, and he hadn’t hesitated to throw himself between them, yelling and trying to shove the bigger boy back. Even that had left him panting and his heart beating too fast.

(He’d pick these fights, always knowing that he was _never_ going to win any of them, but they would _always_ be a _victory_ regardless, if the bully didn’t succeed harassing someone else.)

The boy behind him left – giving him a dubious look even as his own safety outweighed the guilt that he felt for leaving him.

Steve had grown up on the stories of his mother’s homeland, of the Old Country where the Old Religion was practiced right alongside the Catholic faith they’d adopted with British rule. She had told him of the Morrigan, the Goddess of Death, foretelling a person’s death if a raven with blood red eyes was seen thrice in one moon.

(He never _did_ tell her that the first thing he’d seen was a raven with blood red eyes, and it had never left, following him around for so much of life that he’d never figured out when it had been _three_ times in a moon, instead of one continuous or twenty-something times.

That even if didn’t always _see_ the raven, he knew that the massive bird was there, watching. He could _feel_ her gaze prickling across his skin, and had found more than a few ice-cold feathers left behind in her wake.)

She also told him of the _bean sidhe_ ; a woman wailing as the Morrigan came for the dying, _screaming_ as the last breath escaped the dead’s chest, a ghost on the edge of the living’s sight dressed in white morning clothes.

Behind the bully, he saw the back of a woman in white, slipping unseen through the busy street before a raven flew in front of face, flying towards her to roost on her shoulder, watching him with red eyes.

It had come to him then in a moment of clarity, that _this_ was the day that he would die; that the fire his mother often compared to, was burning too bright to last for much longer, and soon the _bean sidhe_ would scream.

Steve wasn’t afraid of death. It had been his constant companion from the moment he had taken his first breath. It had been his friend when no one had been. It was there, _always_ ; a specter that hung over him, never far, because death was always _waiting_ for when his heart would fail.

Each breath, each heartbeat, was a gamble if _this_ would be the last, and with every day, every hour, every _minute_ that he kept walking the fine line between living and dying, it had been a _victory_ for his continued survival. And he’d kept making that gamble, kept fighting to _live_ because running from that specter was never an option he’d considered.

He had been determined to go down swinging to the _last_ , and not go quietly into the eternal night.

(Not being afraid of death didn’t mean he’d accept it yet, not until he’d _lived_ first.)

So, Steve had set his jaw, held up his fists, and taken the punch he’d seen coming but hadn’t been able to dodge. He’d been knocked down but not out, climbing back up from where he’d gone down on one knee, grinning with a bloody smile as he brought his fists back up, “Come on, that all ya got? I could do this all day.”

Then he’d heard footsteps running their way, and he’d stuck his chin up, spine straightening, because if the bully needed _help_ to subdue him, then he was doing this _right._

An avenging angel had shown up then, haloed in the afternoon light and coming in on wings of fury.

He’d stared at the boy nearly twice as big as him but he’d find out was actually nearly a year younger, staring at his disheveled dark hair and dark eyes bright with anger, “What the hell, you fucker?!”

(Stared because, this boy didn’t even _know_ him and yet was righteously angry _for him_.)

His mother had whispered of soulmates of him before, right alongside stories of the Old Country and the Old Religion, and told him of how they were like best friends but _more_. That they complemented all the best parts of you, and encouraged you to be better than you were alone. Gave you strength when you were weak, let you be soft when the world was hard. Soulmates could be best friends, brothers, lovers, whatever you needed most, and it would mean company in the dark and a guide into the light.

(His father had found his in a boy from Harlem that he’d met on the fields of war, that he’d fought side by side with and who had died in the trenches next to him. That he’d carried that boy’s dog tags with him through the rest of the war and his life, until he’d died of Influenza in late 1918, just a month before he’d been born and then his mother had kept them and his father’s wedding ring around her neck.)

He’d known then and there, without a doubt, instinctively, that he’d found his – because when he’d _needed_ him _most_ , he was _there_.

 _And_ that he’d get more than just one moment with him, when with a startling loud _caw,_ the Morrigan _left_ for the first time in his _life_ – gone out of sight, and without the hair-raising feeling of being watched from a distance.

At the sight of the other boy, he _forgot_ for a moment about the bully, until when the bully stood his ground, the other boy stalked forward and threw a punch that knocked the bully _down,_ his nose broken and blood gushing down his front from it. Steve scrambled wobbly to his feet because he was no _damsel_ despite the rescue, and he _refused_ to be thought weak for it, meeting the boy’s gaze square-on, “I had that.” – his chin jutting up proudly and his eyes defiant – “I had him on the ropes.”

The other boy had turned on his heel and stared at him – just _stared_ at him for a moment, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing – before reaching out and grasping him by the shoulders, “Are you fucking crazy?! You damn punk! He was a mountain compared to you!”

Steve grinned at the question, because that wasn’t saying he _couldn’t_ do it, only that he _shouldn’t_ , “Maybe,” – his smile wide and bloody – “but you can’t let bullies get away uncontested.”

Exasperation had played across the other boy’s face, like a visual _you motherfucker_ , but there had been something sharp in his eyes that had been _amused_ at how he’d stand his ground despite the odds.

( _Bucky had barked out a laugh as he’d read the_ Hobbit _in late ‘37, a decade later “Mithril, now_ that’s _a good descriptor for you. You have a spine of mithril, Stevie!”_ )

Even _then_ , he had seen the tendrils of respect growing between them, that for all that he _looked_ like he could be blown away by the slightest wind, he was made of sterner stuff. He’d puffed up in pride that he was _respected_ for standing tall in the face of the world doing its best to break him down.

He’d held out a hand to the other boy, “I’m Steve Rogers.”

That had earned him a grin, just as sharp as his eyes, “Well, _Stevie_ , I’m James Barnes.” – shaking his hand firmly, like he _wasn’t_ a china doll masquerading as a boy – “Friends call me Bucky.”

Bucky had walked away with him after the bully had turned tail and run, his arm flung around his thin, bony shoulders, and Steve had _known_ his life would never be same as it would have been without meeting Bucky.

He had fought away death at first, for his mother, so she wouldn’t be alone after losing his father, then also because he was just an ornery bastard who’d never learned how to run away from a fight or give up. But after meeting Bucky, he would fight death away if it meant that he would get see another smile directed at him, heard his name said like it _meant_ something, even if was just _one more time_.

( _With Bucky gone, Steve struggled to find a_ reason _to fight against the weight holding him down, and so he would_ stay _down for this long moment of faux-peace._ )

When his mother had gotten home few hours after he had, and seen how his eyes were bright, as he’d talked a mile-a-minute about Bucky, she’d just _smiled_.

( _His mother had known well before him, that they’d become Steve-and-Bucky, Bucky-and-Steve, and that would_ hold _, no matter how long they had from then on, no matter what happened, or what changed, and no matter who they became until the end of the line._ )

He’d been nearly asleep when his mother had bowed her head over his, the tears at the corners of her eyes dragging across his cheek, and quietly thanked whatever deity, whatever god or God, that had put Bucky in his Path to meet, and walk with through life. She’d thanked them for having it happen _today_ , because she’d seen the Morrigan and _known_ this was the day she should have lost her _ghrain_. Thanked them for answering her prayers that he would find someone that would coax and feed and _protect_ the fire that was her son even when her Path ended.

(He never did out that she’d prayed for such a thing, because she’d known the Morrigan would come for her soon when she’d fallen into a coughing fit earlier that week and blood had speckled her palm.)

~

_Frozen as he was, he still dreamed._

_Whenever he was awake, the dreams hovered just beyond his knowledge, nagging to not_ forget _. Even after they’d built that Chair and began to have him regularly occupy it, because there was only so long they could force him to be docile when he_ knew _there was somewhere he_ needed _to be. Even as that Chair fried his mind to_ make _him forget, again and again, because some things could never be forgotten no matter if the knowledge itself was gone, the dreams_ lingered _._

_Some lingered better than others, and of those, there were parts that remained intact more so, stronger than the rest._

_Fragments that no matter how many times they strapped that contraption over his head, remained in his head._

_The scent of cotton candy. Holding somebody close and sheltering their skinny frame against his chest. Broken-sounding pleading for_ just one more night _. 1924. His stomach clenching with hunger, the sound of it dulled inaudibly. The warmth of another body close to his. New Years. Eyes so blue they put the sky to shame with just a hint of earthy green in their depths. Dark eyes smiling with pride. 1927. Large hands cupping his face. A broad back. The scent of whisky. 1923. Brooklyn. Azzano. Snow. A rough cotton beige uniform. The feeling of running pomade through his hair. Blood red lipstick._

_When he dreamed in the cold, some fragments pulled a little closer together, but there were too many blanks, too many blurs to be anywhere near whole._

_Still they remained, no matter how_ many _times he was put to sleep with an empty head._

 _The memory of why he still remembered some things had been taken from him, ironically, but he_ kept _these fragments for a_ reason _, thanks to a glowing cube._

 _A cube that had glowed an unearthly blue, that instead of granting him knowledge or understanding had heard his plea of_ don’t let me forget _as pain had broken him down and rebuilt him. While they broke him again and again, rearranging jagged edges against sharp edges in different patterns until they had someone new, they couldn’t destroy who he had been, just bury him beneath a translucent wall of that blue they couldn’t touch._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #me @ me: we’re going to finish this, motherf#cker #it’s been in the works since 2012 in one form or another #and gone through no less than seven revisions #and haven’t updated in YEARS #but it WILL get finished #(or at least get up through Iron Man FINALLY) #particularly since I’m home on furlough now and I have no excuse  
> #in the way of the hobbits #I will post something of each of the various series I have started for my birthday #finished or not because otherwise nothing will get updated at this rate


	2. [Interlude from the Tales of Morpheus] How (Mr.) Trouble met (Ms.) Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Becca meeting Steve, to the complete exasperation of a soon-to-be long-suffering Bucky.

The excitement of meeting Bucky didn’t fade easily, even for just becoming friends.

( _It never really went away in regards to his belief that Bucky was his soul mate, not even after Bucky’s Fall, because meeting Bucky would always be one of his best memories and wouldn’t never cease to make him happy because of it._ )

It had made Confession on Sundays easier, because he wouldn’t have been _rewarded_ with Bucky’s presence in his life if he had _really_ sinned.

(If he had met Bucky, then it wasn’t a _sin_ , to not feel bad for kicking Lenny from down the block in the shin for calling of his neighbors, a little red-haired girl named Sharlene, a freckled pig, even if he _did_ feel bad about the busted lip and new black eye he’d gotten for doing so before Bucky had shown up and scared Lenny off. _That_ part he felt bad about, because Bucky had flailed in concern, and his mother had chewed her lip in worry, at the sight.)

It made the wait after he finished his Confessions and while his mother did hers easier, because Bucky’s family came to the service after theirs, being Russian Orthodox instead of Irish Catholic, and so if he finished early, he could meet them as they arrived early. Partially because his mother _always_ took a long time in Confessions.

(She told him that she was _supposed_ to feel bad for calling men lots of bad names – almost always to their _faces_ – for when they were being _dumbasses_ and getting hurt then wasting precious hospital medical supplies because they were being big babies over a tiny cut or bruise. Particularly since she wasn’t allowed to _do_ anything when she later saw those men’s wives hurting _badly_ and ‘supposedly’ couldn’t afford to have _them_ see a doctor.

She’d pat his hand, as she told him that because she _didn’t_ feel bad for it, she had to talk the priest a _long time_ about it. Then, they’d, without fail, end up having unknown women over for dinner they could hardly afford to just once, and would never see again.)

While he waited for Bucky to find him, he’d settled down in a patch of scraggly grass and pulled out the sketchbook his mother his mother had gotten him for his last birthday and did quick sketches of people coming and going from church. He’d lost track of time like that, drawing and erasing, trying to get proportions right, when a little girl, maybe a year, maybe two years younger than him at _maybe_ five, but already nearly a head taller than him, marched right over to him.

He’d just stared at her for a moment, because he _didn’t_ know her, but she looked familiar. Maybe it was because he’d just been sketching people – maybe it was because he was waiting for Bucky, and thus was watching for _his_ familiar face – but she looked _just_ like Bucky. Eerily so, like her nose was a little more upturned, and her eyes were a little bigger, but she _looked just like Bucky_.

She didn’t seem to take any notice of his staring, as she frowned, angrily tugging at her skirt, “Baba Yaga is stuck in a tree, and _Mama_ says I can’t climb trees in this dress.”

Steve tucked his sketchbook in his jacket before she finished saying _trees_ , and then stood up, “I’ll help. Where’s Baba Yaga?”

She smiled, big and making it obvious that she was missing a tooth, before grabbing his hand and tugging him off towards the twisted little apple tree he saw the priest tend to each morning, “Thank you! Baba Yaga is just a kitten, and she must be so _scared_ so high up. I know _I_ would be, if I was so small.”

Steve tried to walk with her, but he found himself being all but dragged behind as she was not only stronger than looked, but her longer legs were moving quickly in her eagerness to get her pet cat down.

She stopped in front of the tree, and it wasn’t even a very _tall_ tree, but it was easily thrice his height, and he had to crane his head back to catch sight of a small, long-haired cat the color of the girl’s hair in one of the highest branches, eyeing the bird’s nest further out on the branch.

The cat didn’t look the least bit perturbed to be up there, but the girl was chewing on her lip, calling out, “Baba! It’s okay, Baba!”

He eyed the cat, then the tree, and considered that for how twisted the tree was, there were lots of spots for him to step on and clutch to climb up, but he wasn’t very sure how well he could do it one-handed on the way back down holding the cat.

The cat looked down at them with a flat stare in her one eye, the other eye and half of the ear closest to it gone, laying down on the branch without any intent of getting down after seeing that the nest was empty. Her ear flicked back as the girl kept calling up at her, “Baba!”

Steve started climbing the tree, getting maybe halfway up before he started shimmying across a branch that wasn’t much thicker than his leg to reach up towards the cat, “Kitty, kitty. Kitty, please come close-”

“OH MY GOD, _STEVE!_ Get down _right now!_ ”

The priest’s sister, a woman dedicated to her faith and _just_ her faith, came rushing over with her long skirts raised halfway up her calves, coming from inside where she’d caught a glimpse of Steve in the tree through one of the windows, her voice sudden and _loud_.

Steve startled slightly at it, but stubbornly kept reaching out for the cat – who had just flicked her ear in annoyance at the woman’s pitch, but otherwise looked like she couldn’t care _less_ about what was happening.

The branch he was straddling let out a loud _crack_ right then.

He _may_ have screamed a little when he started to fall, his eyes squeezing shut to not see the ground coming up to meet him.

Only, something broke his fall. Or more accurately, _someone_ broke his fall.

He opened his eyes to see that he’d been half-caught, half-cushioned from hitting the ground, to lay sprawled half-across, half-caught in someone’s arms.

Bucky grumbled something under his breathe in a language he didn’t know – something guttural with a sharp sound that he didn’t quite catch – before raising an eyebrow at him, “Ya know, I’ve been telling my _Mama_ about you, and the first thing the priest said when he’d heard I’d befriended you was that you were trouble. With a capital T. Admittedly, not because you’re bad or anything – though he _did_ say something about you picking fights, which I’m _not_ surprised by – but because you are always doing things your body can’t handle even when the spirit is willing.”

A disgruntled look crossed Bucky’s face, before he more properly arranged them so Steve’s elbows didn’t dig into his ribs. Steve knew he should be trying to get up, and be very much embarrassed to have been caught princess-style in Bucky’s arms, but his body had gone rather boneless in relief of not requiring _another_ hospital trip this week. Bucky just sighed, a hint of long-suffering in it already, “I should have _known_ Trouble would have attracted Trouble, because now you’ve met my sister, Becca.”

Steve clapped his hands together excitedly hearing that he’d been right in his guess, as he leaned back to look upside down at Becca, “I _thought_ you looked like Bucky!”

Bucky just grunted as his weight settled more on the younger boy’s stomach, but he noticeably didn’t push him off. Not that Steve noticed as he saw how Becca didn’t look the _least_ bit repentant for being called Trouble, even as she looked concernedly at him, before puffing up a bit defensively, “Baba Yaga was in trouble and I couldn’t find _you_. Steve was the only one willing to _help_.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Bucky give her a long _flat_ look, “Yeah, Trouble. Sure, whatever you say. Next time, look a _little_ harder.” – before he got bonked on the head, and Steve was subjected to a sharp-eyed look with the corners of his lips downturned harshly – “And _you,_ don’t just _agree_ to help whoever. Not everyone _needs_ help.”

Then that _look_ of Bucky’s faded some for something softer, fonder, and he raised an eyebrow with a conspiring glint in his eyes, his voice a tease, “I don’t think Becca realizes this yet, Steve, but that cat is a _she-devil_. She can take care of herself _quite_ fine without interference from us, I mean she even fought off a dog as a _really_ little kitten, and I’m pretty sure she _ate_ that dog too. _Mama_ named her _Baba Yaga_ for a _reason_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #Baba Yaga #Baaaabbaaaa Yaaagaaa~  
> #Whatever eldritch creature are you, you she-devil~


	3. memory is a reliving -

It was in late in 1926 that he met Bucky, when the air was still warm but with a chill just starting to sink in. Winter came early that year, right on the heels of that meeting.

Being adventurous children, they wandered through most of Brooklyn as they played. Learning every nook and cranny, every shortcut.

And every alleyway because Steve was _Steve_ , and he wouldn’t be _Steve_ if he didn’t pick fights with bullies and didn’t get well acquainted with those back alleys because they weren’t fights that he could win on his own.

 _Being_ children, people talked around them in a way they might not have otherwise, shopkeepers whispering worries among each other but careful to not spread it to their customers that it would be a _lean_ winter, with crops failing in the mid-west. He understood _why_ when as his mother had listened to them with his brows pinched in a frown, chewing on her lip, that it was _bad news_.

(He wouldn’t realize for several more years though, that what he’d heard was some of the first whispers of what would become known as the Great Depression that fall – not until there was an ache in his stomach, a hunger that couldn’t be satisfied with the amount of food they had, and was there to _stay_.)

Not that he often complained about what they ate, sometimes little better than what the grocer would discard and then hand out to the less fortunate, but what complaints he had, quieted as he watched a frown settle permanently on his mother’s face.

She’d always worried at the amount of money they had, meager at the best of times with only her work as a nurse funding them, and his copious medical bills and various medicines a constant drain on their funds, sometimes only keeping a roof over their head by the generosity of their landlord letting them pay rent a little late. The sudden weather change, the sudden _cold_ -

[ _It was so_ cold _, that he’d quite forgotten what it was like to feel_ warm.]

-it didn’t do them any favors. His body ached more so than usual, chest tight and head heavy, as his usual start-of-winter cold came on early and hard, making him miserable and having him start the day and end it taking a whole cartload of medicines to be able to _breath_.

Then their heat went out after the first frost of the season in mid-October – much earlier than what he’d seen before – and she didn’t have the money to get it fixed right away if they wanted to _eat_.

[ _It had been-_ was- _so_ cold. _It felt like ice was in his veins._ ]

His mother all but outright forbade him from going anywhere when his cold didn’t ease up, after their heater died, bundling him up in layers after layers. As he panted open-mouthed with his nose closed, it meant he stayed pretty much where she left him in bed, only getting up occasionally for food or water, or going to the bathroom.

Only, ever since he’d met Bucky, there rarely they didn’t meet up at all, as most mornings, the other boy would come and escort him to school, and swinging back by his home for the oldest of his little sisters that was old enough to go to school too, Becca, with him in tow.

At first, Bucky hadn’t really been worried, seeing him sniffling and occasionally coughing, because everyone caught a cold, and only the really young and really old were _really_ in danger as long as they stayed worm, ate, and drank plenty of water. Not that he hadn’t still fussed over him, refusing to take him along anywhere if he wasn’t bundled up in jacket, hat, and scarf, and hounding him to stay hydrated.

As it had lingered, he’d just started letting him go out, and just came in, but then the cold had _refused to go away_ , and Bucky had skipped school for week after dropping Becca off to stay with him, watching him like a hawk like if he looked away, the cold would get the better of him.

(Later, he realize that neither of their mothers – who upon introduction, had gotten on just as well as their sons, becoming bosom buddies within a week that even long-time neighbors started confusing for sisters – had had the heart to reprimand Bucky, because they’d worried he wouldn’t survive the winter if he was already struggling before the first snow.

Not that they were _wrong_ to worry, because the startling drop in temperature that came with the first snow was _not_ kind to his health, _more_ so than years previous.)

However, when Steve got neither better or worse, Winifred had put her foot down, and Steve had mirrored her, because while he _wanted_ Bucky there to keep him company, he hadn’t wanted the younger boy to get too far behind in his schooling because Bucky was surely going to _make_ something of his life, smart as he was. So, he’d tried to out-stubborn the other boy – and it had only _worked_ because Bucky was just as much of a momma’s boy as he was, and Winifred had refused to let him miss another day of school because she’d known if she gave Bucky an inch here, he’d take a mile.

(He never _did_ tell anyone that like how Bucky had scared off the Morrigan before, now that he’d left – very unhappily and resistant to the idea – the Morrigan that he’d only catch glimpses of at a distance – like she was held at bay ­– returned like she’d never left, his constant shadow once again.)

A few days after Bucky went back to school and the Morrigan settled herself in a roost near the roof of their building, and he could hear her _caw-caw_ throughout the day and night, a constant reminder that _she was there_.

His mother always turned pale as milk at the sound, before curling tight around him, often coughing and shaking through the cold night no matter how many layers of blankets they were.

(He didn’t figure out until _much_ later that she’d feared that the Morrigan would come for _her_ that winter, and thus _ensure_ that he would follow her into death – not until she was gone.)

The first snow fell soon after that.

His mother bundled skinny little him in as many of his clothes that she could get onto him, before adding on a pair of her thicker dresses atop of that as added insulation, (rightfully) worried that he would freeze to death while she was at work. (Rightfully) afraid that the Morrigan would come down from her roost and sit on their window sill, and be _seen_.

Once she was gone, as the temperature continued to drop well beneath freezing, it was only vaguely he registered how _cold_ it had gone.

[ _It was_ cold _._

 _The cold was in his bones, turning them to solid blocks as liquid ice ran through his veins and frozen mist sat heavy in his lungs._ ]

The frantic pounding on his door some time after his mother left went largely unheard.

[ _Time was a strange thing when it was_ cold _. An eternity passed in the blink of an eye; a second lasted_ forever _._ ]

He wouldn’t remember later, stumbling out of his cocoon as the knocking persisted, shaking the door and doorframe with each strike, and opening it to a blue-tinged Bucky with snow in his dark hair and soaking through his clothes.

( _This young Bucky blended into the Bucky he would be in almost twenty years, the one he’d last seen before that fateful mission where he’d been lost; pale, with blue-chapped lips, firmly dusted in snow, eyes dark as coal, in a navy-blue jacket, before that serious look faded out for a sharp smirk as he asked if this was payback for the Cyclone._

 _Then Bucky was falling, falling,_ falling-)

[ _His eyes snapped open inside his watery grave, his hand extending out to catch Bucky-_

 _And he screamed and screamed, choking again and again on the icy water drowning him still, until he mercifully felt nothing more._ ]

(Not until this cold passed, and he asked Bucky if he’d really been here, did he find out that the younger boy had spent most of the week at the bedside of his two younger sisters, fretting and worrying over how baby Ana had caught a cold, and his father, who drank away most evenings, had not been seen for most of the last couple of days. That Winifred had taken pity on Bucky as she fussed over her husband, fully sober for the first time in years and exhausted from working consecutive shifts for the medicine Ana needed, as they took Bucky’s place at Ana’s place after she’d scrounged up what she needed for a stew that her mother swore by.)

He _vaguely_ remembered Bucky pushing him back until he could close the door with his foot, sticking his bowl of stew on the kitchen table, before wrapping a giant knitted monstrosity of a blanket around him. _Vaguely_ remembered Bucky picking him up from where he’d been sniffling and wavering in place in his mother’s dresses, like he weighed nothing, and then carefully, gently, tucked his sneezing, wheezing, shivering frame back into his mother’s bed.

 _Very_ vaguely remembered Bucky shedding his own damp clothes and pulling on a dress of his mother’s himself for lack of anything else big enough for him to wear.

He did remember Bucky chiding him for how his focus lapsed when he’d startled at having Bucky curling up under the blankets with him after retrieving the stew, and force-feeding it to him.

He _remembered_ how Bucky whispered more to himself than him as he did, speaking in the Romanian he wouldn’t learn from him for another couple of years.

( _Now,_ he knew he’d said: _Come on Stevie, there we go, eat this and you’ll feel better. Mother swears by this stew, says that her mother saved her grandfather’s life with it, and that what I intend it to do for you, gods-dammit._ )

He hadn’t needed to _understand_ it then for him to know that Bucky had cared enough to _blasphemy_ for him, because his eyes had been worried, _scared for him_. His chest had warmed with a heat separate from the one that Bucky’s body heat did as it settled into his aching joints and soothed the fever that had set in after his mother had left.

Bucky had hand-fed him until he was _full_ to the bursting, then had practically licked the bowl clean of the rest to settle the gnawing at his own belly, cuddling _close_ until the lines between them blurred.

Blurry-eyed from exhaustion and sleepiness now that he was _warm_ , Steve _vaguely_ remembered how the Morrigan had given one last _caw_ – this one sounding _distinctly_ like _motherfucker_ – at Bucky, her feathers ruffled as she went.

He _hardly_ remembered how Bucky had positively wrapped himself around his smaller frame, left arm under him and palm laid over his chest to feel where his heart beat strongest, other arm curled over him and pulling him back against his chest, clutching at the sleeve of Steve’s dress like by sheer force of _will_ , he could _keep_ him amongst the living.

(He didn’t see the gold that had flashed in Bucky’s eyes then as he glared murder out the window at the Morrigan, promising a _fight_ if she dared to try and take him while he was right _there_.

He didn’t see it _this_ time, but Steve would _know_ that look over the nearly twenty years they were together because that look promised _death_ to any who stood against Bucky, no matter who or what they were.)

Steve was asleep when his mother came in more than half-panicked, having been increasingly believing that the cold had finally ended his life this day with how the temperature continued to drop. He had been asleep as she had frozen at the sight of tufts of blond and brown hair sticking out of a giant knitted blanket stretched over her bed that she’d never seen before.

He’d grumbled, a little less asleep, when she’d peeled back one corner of the blanket, to see them sleeping, a warm flush to his cheeks different from the fever he’d had earlier, with him tucked beneath Bucky’s chin, clutched tight.

He’d smiled sleepily at her as icy tears had run down her cheeks, because she’d been afraid to find a cold blue-tinted, soulless body of her boy and he was _alive_.

(She’d snicker as she ruffled his hair in the days following that she’d come home one day to find a dragon guarding her _ghrain_ with a fierce devotion on her bed, and he would smile because the description felt _right_ for Bucky.)

~

 _He clung to those fragments of memory with everything he had, because he_ needed _them to_ remember _._

_They reminded him that he’d been human once, hadn’t been born a flesh-and-blood machine, that’d he’d had a name and been a person with thoughts and desires of his own instead of orders._

_Even as the man struggled to survive deep inside, he relinquished control over his body to who he’d been made into – the Soldier – and had to watch what was done to train the Soldier, what the Soldier did on orders, before forgetting again and again such things, but still, the fragments_ remained _._

_And part of him never really forget those fragmented memories, giving them back to him as dreams._

_At some point, those fragments differentiated Before and After, and he_ remembered _one person. He_ clung _to the_ memory _of that one person with all the desperation of a man with nothing else to lose, of an animal backed into a corner hungry and wounded but a reason to fight, of a monster that was drawn to its opposite because it hadn’t_ always _been a monster._

_That one person, a blond man with a deep voice and eyes like the ocean, awakened something older than anything else that had survived dozens of memory wipes mostly intact and reframed it to something the Soldier understood and acknowledged without prompting._

_Every time the Soldier woke, it thus ran its most basic programming as it scanned the faces of every single person it met, looking for the blond from memory, that it decided was its Handler._ The _Handler, different from all those used The Words and claimed to be such, and forgot with ease._

_~_

As the weather had warmed to balmy even it was still _cold_ , if just _slightly_ less so, Steve’s cold finally passed.

Bucky was coming over every day again – after school now, until he could come back to class himself.

Steve _hated_ the cold, but he hated it less now that he had _Bucky_ , even if he still sniffled and shivered beneath the blanket Bucky had refused to take back. He even came to _like_ it a little bit, because he could slot against Bucky’s side, one of Bucky’s arms thrown over his shoulders and he hugged Becca to his other side and sat Ana between his knees, as Bucky’s grandfather regaled them with stories of the Old Country, about Romania, about the _true_ Vlad Dracul – _not_ the Dracula that Bram Stoker had made and who was cursed at the sheer mention of – while he drew the Barnes family.

( _He_ remembered _drawing Bucky all the time, every spare moment he had, trying to get him_ just _right._

 _Spending hours getting the dimple in his cheeks when smiled small and true and kind; the scrunch of his nose when he didn’t much like what he was hearing; the crinkles by his eyes when he laughed._ )

By the end of that winter, he could almost recite with Bucky, word for word, many of the elder Barnes’ stories, and had filled his entire sketchbook – and then some – of the family.

(Bucky was on almost every page. Of the three to twenty doodles he could fit on any which page, there were very few pages that didn’t have Bucky as the centerpiece, as _there_.

Bucky was his favorite muse.)

He remembered that with money so tight, and trying to preserve the sketchbook for the more polished pieces, instead using whatever scraps of paper he could get his hands on to practice – then stuffing them into the absolutely _filled_ sketchbook when he was done with them – and binding it all with a piece of cord his mother had given him.

( _He_ remembered _the twinkle in her eye when she’d handed the cord to him, a couple of days after his sketchbook had all but exploded and papered their apartment with his drawings, and she’d helped him pick it up and_ seen _. He’d tried to not go red when he accepted the cord and bound the sketchbook, but he’d known he’d failed when she’d laughed._

 _The embarrassment had been_ worth it _, to hear her laugh like that._ )

Of course, he didn’t draw _just_ Bucky – admittedly, he drew Bucky a _lot_ , but Bucky wasn’t the _only_ thing he drew – drawing anything ranging from the city around them to the people they passed on the street, their neighborhood, their families, and he showed Bucky all those _other_ things.

It just was that Bucky was his true muse, his absolute _favorite_ thing to draw – his friend was just so _animated_ , a thousand subtle expressions flashing across his face and in his eyes, and no matter how many times he drew him, nothing ever seemed _quite_ right, never seemed to _quite_ capture the _essence_ of Bucky.

In the end, he hid his drawings of Bucky under a loose floorboard in his mother’s room where Bucky wouldn’t see them. Not because he was _ashamed_ of them, but he didn’t intend to show them to _Bucky_ until he felt like he’d finally drawn the photo of Bucky that he was _worthy_ of being seen by the man himself. Because Bucky _deserved_ to see exactly how Steve saw him.

(Steve thought Bucky deserved the _world_ at his feet, and for the whole world to know how _great_ Bucky was.)

( _He_ dreamed _of the look that Bucky would have given him, if his friend had known that he’d been besotted with him pretty much from day one of their acquaintance – and he couldn’t help shed the tears that the look gave him, because he didn’t_ doubt _the look Bucky would have given him._

 _He didn’t need to think, because he_ knew.

 _It had been there from the beginning, in every look, glance, gaze, word Bucky had ever said to him, about him. They’d just never confronted it._ )

~

The spring after they met, Becca had pouted at them about how the other girls on her street wouldn’t play with her because she was unrepentantly a tomboy and on the regular, loudly proclaimed that she wanted to be _just_ like her big brother.

Bucky had just raised an eyebrow at her, and she’d just followed after him – after _them_ , because Steve was forever trailing after Bucky too, and it was easy for her to fall into step with him to watch Bucky’s back – pouting. He knew that she knew that Bucky had a soft spot for her, and that if she kept at it, he would find someone to play the more girly games she wanted to play with her.

The pout wobbled, and Bucky paused, brow furrowing, _clearly_ trying to think of something to make her feel better because he _hated_ the glimmers of angry tears in her eyes. He _hated_ anything that made his little sister upset, with a _passion_ when it brought tears to her eyes, because Becca was _strong_.

(Steve _remembered_ hearing Bucky regale him with the story of how when a body had _dared_ to call her _ugly_ , she had punched his teeth out, sounding so _proud_ as told that story. He’d never doubted that for as much as Becca openly adored her brother, it was also obviously a _mutual_ feeling.)

When Bucky had been thinking too long for her liking, Becca had turned her pout on Steve, _knowing_ that if she made him blush and stutter as he was wont to do when teased, then her brother would come charging in like Vlad Dracul had in her grandfather’s stories about the people who had captured the legendary man’s heart.

( _It was perhaps fitting that she had figured them out well before most – before even_ themselves _. Becca had always been such a big part of their lives, would have always been if they’d survived the war, and she had loved them both with the Barnes devotion_.)

The pout had morphed quickly into a shit-eating grin, a mischief glint coming to her eyes as she’d started dragging Steve inside with her into the room she’d shared with her younger sister – and as Bucky had belatedly followed after, she’d started pestering him into pulling on one of her dresses, one that for all that he was nearly two years older and shouldn’t have fit, was actually a little big.

He _remembered_ not resisting very much, too used to being bundled up in his mother clothes when it was cold and she fretted that it would be the death of him.

(That without any friends or siblings, before Bucky, he had spent more than a few days by himself puttering around their apartment like he’d seen his mother do. That even when it wasn’t cold, he’d more than once pulled on one of her dresses of his own accord, tied his floppy hair back into thin pigtails like he’d seen her do when it was warm and she was _happy_ , trying to imitate how she moved as he tried to clean what he could reach.)

He _remembered_ that with Bucky’s belated pause, he’d ended up staring as Steve had slipped that too big dress while only putting up a _little_ protest about how boys didn’t play dress up (like that).

(Boys played dress up too, anyone who said otherwise was a _liar_. He’d spent more than a few evenings watching from the sidelines as the neighborhood boys played cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians, dressed up in bandanas and with chicken tail feathers.)

That Buck had _stared_ without blinking had taken away the ugly feeling that had grown in his chest hearing him echo his words – hearing _him_ say that – made it clear that he was just repeating the attitude of their times (too).

( _Now, he could realize how oblivious he’d been – because that moment had been more than clear that Bucky’s feelings didn’t care about the same things the people around them would have, just that it was_ him _. Steve had just always missed it when it mattered._ )

Then Bucky had grinned with all his teeth – too sharp and wide to be just humoring, edging towards _if anyone gives us shit, I’ll deal with them_ – as Becca had faux-casually said that if the other girls didn’t want to play with her, she could just play with _them_.

(She’d been expecting Bucky to refuse, to turn it down because _boys didn’t wear dresses_ and if anyone else saw them, they’d be thought _freaks_ , and he _should_ have cared. Bucky had never _cared_ about anything other than what made the people he cared about happy, but he’d later master how to put up a good appearance of _acting_ like what was thought of him.

That wasn’t yet though.)

Steve remembered them playing house a _lot_ that spring and summer, with him almost always dressing up in Becca’s clothes so that he could play the part of being the mother or the sister.

Bucky had somehow always ended up being the father, or the suitor of the sister, while Becca always angled to play their daughter, or the other sister, sometimes of the suitor and sometimes of the girl being courted, in their play-acting.

( _Which, in hindsight, had been glaringly obvious proof of her approval of_ them _. Like the only way to be more obvious that she accepted Steve-and-Bucky, Bucky-and-Steve was if she’d just_ said _so._

 _And of Bucky’s own thoughts of the roles, because he’d_ never _protested what parts they’d play._ )

He _remembered_ Bucky teaching him how to braid little Ana’s hair so that could help while Bucky did Becca’s, when school later started up again in the fall.

(With the token explanation that it was fitting of his ‘role’, if he could. Like he would _argue_ learning something that brought him closer to two of his favorite people. Brought him closer to all three, because his mother had been so _happy_ to let him practice on her hair in the evenings, and once he got a little better, asked him to braid it in the mornings before work.)

He _remembered_ how red he would blush at how Bucky casually started calling him _baby doll_ during those games.

He _remembered_ how even after they stopped playing – or at least as _often_ , after Becca befriended a newcomer on the block – that Bucky _didn’t_ mind playing the game with just them every once in a while.

He _remembered_ how, sometimes after, even when he _wasn’t_ dressed up, Bucky called him _baby doll_ , called him _sweetheart_ , called him _darling_.

( _In retrospect, he could him_ all sorts _of oblivious and a massive_ idiot _– Bucky had_ never _been_ at all _subtle with his feelings towards him. He’d been saying it with every way but outright all the way from the beginning._ )

~

 _While he dreamed of fragmented memories, it took a_ long _time for one to pull together enough to start to be recognizable._

 _That one, it was of the day that he’d met the boy who’d become_ everything _to him before the end._

 _He couldn’t say what year it had been, if it was morning or evening, what the weather had been like, wherever it had been, or if anyone else had been there. Maybe never again, but he_ remembered _him._

_He remembered the most important parts._

_He remembered being out with a bunch of boys whose faces he couldn’t remember, that were lost to him, when someone ran by, then he heard the sound of flesh hitting flesh. He couldn’t say what had drawn him forward, towards that fight, a fight that shouldn’t have stood out from the dozens or so he saw any which day. He couldn’t say why he’d been inexplicably drawn to_ that _fight, but because of it, he’d seen a taller blur of a boy punching this skinny little_ punk _._

 _He_ remembered _, “Come on, I can do this all day.”_

 _He_ remembered _the blood on the boy’s face, the determined set to his jaw as he’d grinned with red teeth, a look in his eye that said_ you’ll have to put me down to keep me down _._

 _He remembered that he’d yelled at the boy as he’d rushed up, though he couldn’t remember_ what _, before he’d thrown a punch because that asshole wasn’t backing down. He remembered that while he hadn’t been too big himself, a little on the small size for his age, he’d still been nearly double the size and weight of the blond he’d somehow come to the rescue of._

 _He_ remembered _how the blond had struggled to stand, his eyes defiant as he’d said, “I had that, I had him on the ropes.”_

 _He remembered turning around and shaking the smaller boy by his thin shoulders,_ distinctly _questioning the other boy’s self-preservation instincts._

 _He_ remembered _the other boy’s bloody grin, before the memory fuzzed out_ just _before he had a_ name _for that blond. A name he_ knew _he still remembered, even still._

 _A name he_ would _remember again._

_~_

Steve remembered how sometime in the fall, after he’d scraped up his after another fight in the sandbox – this time _ending it himself_ , rather decisively with a punch to the other fella’s jaw – Bucky had pushed and pulled him along to somewhere he could clean up the small wound without an audience.

He _remembered_ how the other boy’s face had screwed up after he’d cleaned the wound out with water, and quickly pecked a kiss to the wound with a light blush on his thin cheeks.

Then, Steve had narrowed his eyes at him, wondering if Bucky was treating him like a _little kid_ whose wounds needed to be kissed better, but Bucky had met his gaze squarely, defiantly, and said that _his_ scrapes always healed better after his mother kissed them.

He _remembered_ how Bucky had been _very_ set on the idea that kissing a wound better, healed it faster, cleaner.

(Steve had had enough wounds by then, to know better. His mother had kissed his scraped and bruises _plenty_ of times, and while they’d always made him feel _loved_ even when the universe _clearly_ hated him, they’d never taken away his pain or made him hurt for less time.)

No matter how he’d argued, Bucky couldn’t be convinced otherwise about the idea of kisses doing a wound good.

( _When they were a little older, if no one was around to hear them because this was something that would get them beaten up about if overheard, he’d always brought this up every time Bucky called_ him _a stubborn bastard, because Bucky was no better about how once he’d gotten an idea in his head, he couldn’t be dissuaded._

 _It hadn’t mattered how many years it was after Bucky had started this, or what argument he gave, Bucky was_ very _resolute on kissing his wounds better. The only thing that changed was that he got increasingly better at making sure that no one could see them when he did, and increasingly acted like there was nothing_ weird _about a pair of teenage boys kissing the other’s wounds._

 _Eventually, he stopped protesting about it. Eventually, the rare times that_ Bucky _got hurt, he even returned the favor for skinned knuckles and thin gashes._ )

If his face got warm every time that Bucky _beamed_ at him afterwards when he just _let_ him, with a warm glow sitting in his chest for days after at making Bucky feel better – at making Bucky _happy_ – only he would know.

( _It wasn’t until they were in the army that he had found out that it was actually the_ nasty _tea that his mother made them drink, that made their wounds heal faster._

 _It was then that he’d figured out Bucky had long since figured out – if he hadn’t always known, it was hard to tell with Bucky sometimes – that kissing a wound didn’t make it heal faster, and he’d just done so –_ kept _doing so – because he’d enjoyed how, without fail, Steve couldn’t help but blush as Bucky had bent down on one knee and paid that wound special attention._

 _Because by then, he’d figured out that a great deal – sometimes he wondered if it wasn’t_ most _– of the things Bucky did, were because Bucky enjoyed the faces that Steve made in response._

 _He knew Bucky had favorites, even if he didn’t know which; they were in order: when he blushed in embarrassment; when his eyes were glittering with mischief; when he straightened with righteous fury over the smallest injustices, eyes a maelstrom, and fully willing to charge in despite_ always _being a third of his opponent’s size._

 _He just knew that it explained a_ lot _about Bucky, and was one of the hardest things to explain when he tried to tell people about his Bucky_.)

Once Becca made that friend, and in being the good big brother he was and he was generally unwilling to go roughhouse with the other boy on his street without Steve being able to follow most times, Bucky ended up chaperoning a lot of Becca’s play-dates.

Steve quite liked the other girl, who was a fresh arrival out of Ellis Island from Italy, as to _no one’s_ surprise – even the newcomers that hadn’t known them long seemed to quickly take it as a _fact_ that where Bucky went, Steve followed – that Steve had come along.

During many of those visits, they saw how Sofia’s father, her mother, would greet old friends and family alike with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Not that such a thing was _new_ , they lived in a neighborhood that was primarily Irish or Italian and it was a common sight. It was significant point to notice though when after a while, Becca picked up the behavior from Sofia, and extended it to them – and it quickly became no more of an oddity for _them_ to return the hug and kiss upon meeting.

(That _Bucky_ easily started to greet him like this, without hesitation, never struck him as odd.)

It didn’t mean that they always did it, and when they did, it was always quick and _always_ out of sight of any watchers, because they weren’t _fools_ ; they weren’t Italian themselves, or women, and doing so in open view, would just be a good way to get smacked around for the idea it was okay to be kissing boys.

(If maybe either of them had been Italian, perhaps maybe it wouldn’t have felt so important to be secretive – maybe it wouldn’t have felt _wrong_ even if it also felt so _right_ – but they weren’t, and so even if they didn’t understand why it was _bad_ , they knew two boys being so abnormally close like that even at their age _was_ , so they were careful to not be seen.)

And for all his bluff and swats when Bucky skirted the line of best friends and _more_ doing things like this, he didn’t hate it, didn’t want it to _stop_. So, often, he would return the gestures in small ways.

( _He_ remembered _when they were teenagers and Bucky started making this a game of chicken, of who would move away first when a peck on the cheek moved to the corner of his mouth, and by the time of Pearl Harbor, on the lips._

 _And it wasn’t until it was too late that he was acting like he was covering his want for more with a dare, because it was almost_ never _that it was Bucky who moved away first._ )

Back then, he’d thought that despite his own feelings as they’d gotten older, that it didn’t mean Bucky was putting _intentions_ there.

( _Not until it was far too late had he realized that Bucky_ had very much put said intentions there, _and it had been_ him _that had taken years to realize why he’d never shoved Bucky away. Bucky had always been more self-aware than him, and more selfish, so he’d taken what he could and kept reaching for more._

 _If only_ he’d _been more aware – then maybe they could have left this plausible deniability behind and given what was between them a_ name. _He just hoped that Bucky had known anyway._ )

~

 _The_ _Сол_ д _а_ т _was silent throughout the first_ memory _to pull together against the odds, before declaring with a hard voice that broke no argument, <<_ **That** is the Handler and **that** is when the Mission that is foremost to all others was begun.>>

 _And he_ agreed _, because it didn’t_ matter _if he couldn’t remember, maybe_ never _remembered again, but that blond – his_ friend _– was someone he would never leave alone, would stay with until the end; he_ knew _it without memory, without words, with a part of himself that could_ never _be taken from him._

<<We _will_ find him again.>>


	4. a recalling of shared history -

_Steve would wake briefly, trying to scream past the water in his lungs, his hands outstretching out for the man that had always been there, nearly from the very beginning to the very end of his memories._

_He would_ remember _tens of times that they would meet, until they began to blur together; as children, teenagers, men, soldiers, sons. He would_ remember _them smiling, laughing, crying, a thousand times, a thousand ways._

Again _and_ again _, he would then be reminded that they’d been forcibly separated, would be_ viscerally _reminded of his_ loss _– and he would drown anew._

 _The times that he could_ feel _Bucky’s fingertips brush against his skin,_ reaching out for him _, made it so much_ worse _._

 _(That_ still _, they were trying to meet again, and were kept apart by a distance that they struggled to cross even now.)_

 _He would struggle against drowning that much hard, screaming, trying to get Bucky to_ look _at him._

See _him._

Recognize _him._

 _Something in him_ knew _that if he could just get Bucky to_ grasp _his hand, then this nightmare would end, one way or another._

~

Despite Bucky’s efforts of the following year, Steve remained balanced on the knife edge between living and dying. The food situation had gotten worse, no longer just whispers between shopkeepers, and now even Winifred was starting to adopt the pinched look Sarah had developed the previous fall, because it wasn’t just the poorest effected. People were getting more and more uneasy as this year followed the previous one’s examples with crops failing, in higher numbers.

The worry caused by the failing crops spread like a plague, infecting household after household as people fell back on old habits, habits people had never quite shaken even after coming to this ‘land of plenty’. Habits that had been encouraged by the war in the years just before he’d been born, and most had never quite stopped even after the war had ended.

His mother hadn’t even feigned otherwise, because they hadn’t been able to afford to.

Between that, and the two mothers pooling resources, then passing tried-and-true recipes back and forth that let them stretch what they had the farthest, even if they all got thinner, no one starved.

(The community banded together over the winter, doing their best to ensure no one went without something, but too many of them had already been living hand-to-mouth and there were too many of them for too little food.

With more parents than not going hungry to feed their children, Steve _remembered_ watching his mother like a hawk, too worried that she’d do that too and they were both already too thin.)

Steve, always rather thin with his bones a bit prominent, was like a rail by the end of 1927, and Sarah wasn’t much better, having lost her appetite alongside a terrible cough that no matter what they did, wouldn’t go away. Part of that was because both Rogers ate like birds, refusing to eat more than the other, but part of that was because while Steve couldn’t stomach much as he sniffled, sneezed, wheezed, coughed, and shivered through cold after cold, Sarah was _sick_. It left both fading away in the end.

Bucky, already proactive on Steve’s health, went into high gear after Steve fainted from hunger one day because he’d been feeling so bad that the idea of food had left terribly queasy. It meant that he showed up nearly every evening, and tried to tempt shy appetites into making an appearance, sharing a bowl of whatever soup or stew his mother had made that day with Steve as Steve refused to take a bite until his mother ate. The soup shared because it was unspoken but acknowledged that even if Steve _wanted_ to finish the bowl of food on his own, he couldn’t, so Bucky would end up eating the rest regardless.

On the days the carrot didn’t work, and Steve claimed to not be hungry and wouldn’t even eat a bite – because he _knew_ Winifred didn’t have _that_ much to spare with a newborn, on top of two other children, and Bucky was undoubtedly sharing his portion with him, on top of how he _knew_ was already giving Becca and Ana a good portion of his food behind his mother’s back – Bucky ended up threatening the stick: if Steve wouldn’t eat at all, he wouldn’t eat either.

(Some days, Steve hated that Bucky knew him well enough that he when it got into his fool head to try and make Bucky – Bucky, who could out-stubborn anyone and anything over what he’d _decided_ – eat, but was _hungry_ , and when he had no appetite because of whatever Dick, Tom, or Harry cold he had that week and just needed to be wheedled into eating _something_.

Only some days, in the moment, because he always appreciated the fact that Bucky knew the difference without a word, no matter that there was no difference in how he acted either way, and his pride got in the way.)

Between his own complicated appetite and the worries that his mother waste away if not watched closely, Steve never _really_ noticed Bucky’s own bad habits with food.

He could _see_ how Bucky always matched his pace, no matter how slow or fast that was, always a heartbeat behind in a silent dare that if he wanted Bucky to eat, he had to eat too.

Sometimes, he would see how Bucky feigned to be full after the food was gone, no matter how little there was, when he got frustrated with his own lack of appetite and how it was _clearly_ not enough, but not always.

( _He_ remembered _after Azzano, where Bucky saw how much more he needed to eat, and Bucky would try to pass off the rest of his food, even if there was familiar tightness by his eyes that said he was_ hungry _too._

 _He_ remembered _that one time, after a particular successful operation against Hydra, their Ghost Company was invited to an awards ceremony for it, and Howard had paid for a banquet large enough to ‘feed three of Captain America!’. He_ remembered _how Bucky had ate and ate, never much at a time so most didn’t see how_ much _he ate, easily brushing of the few others that saw how_ many _times he went back for more food, by saying it was for_ him. _He_ remembered _playing along, then pretending to get distracted from finishing the plate as he smiled the Captain America smile and talked to people and he shielded Bucky from curious eyes as he ate._

 _He_ remembered _Bucky eating_ just _as much, if not_ more _than him, putting Howard’s claim of feeding ‘three of Captain America’ to the test. He_ remembered _that being the first time he’d seen ‘I ate too much’ on Bucky’s face in a long time._

 _He_ remembered _catching Peggy thanking Howard for doing her a favor, and Howard saying throwing a banquet this size was nothing if it meant_ certain _people didn’t go hungry, he knew what it was like to be_ hungry _. He_ remembered _slipping away while Bucky had run herd on the rest of the Howling Commandos, and smiling too bright at Howard as he’d thanked for doing this, it meant a_ lot _to him_.)

Mostly because he _knew_ when Bucky would try to give him the bulk of his food – and he _refused_ to tolerate that shit, but Bucky still got away with too often, because he talked all through the meal, always distracting him with one thing or another and acting like he’d eaten more than he had after.

( _It_ still _irritated the_ hell _out of him that Bucky had used his greatest talent – talking till the cows came home and beyond – to such effect on_ him _, but there was little he wouldn’t give just to hear Bucky_ talk _again, so he might forgive him doing so again just for it.)_

What made Bucky’s bad habit worse in his opinion was the fact that both of their mothers _knew_ at least something about what Bucky was doing, and _understood_ why he did it where Steve didn’t.

( _Now, he_ did _. If one survived where the other didn’t, the survivor wasn’t long for this world. Maybe they’d never thought there was a world where Steve outlived_ Bucky _, but Steve was sure that the Barnes family hadn’t been the least surprised that he’d refused to keep walking his Path just weeks after Bucky had stopped. That he’d finished what he’d started, and once he was done, he’d followed Bucky to the end of their line._

 _He remembered Bucky’s grandfather looking directly_ at _him, then looking past him to a familiar red-eyed crow roosting out on the street, and saying while Bucky was out of the room, that they had a bond that even_ Death _respected, and it was clear as the highest quality glass that where one went, the other was destined to follow. He_ remembered _the older man’s dark brown eyes so like Bucky’s it was uncanny, tinting red like dried blood in the light, and_ promising _that Bucky would be_ happy _regardless of whatever trials they faced in life, because they were_ together.

 _He never_ did _learn that the elder Barnes had taken Winifred aside one day and told her that if she tried to save Bucky’s life by abandoning Steve, that Bucky would never forgive her, not completely no matter how much he loved her, for forcing him to live and to watch Steve die when he thought he could do something to prevent it – but Bucky had overheard, had met his grandfather’s eyes with his own narrowed gold-tinted, and agreed._ )


	5. [Interlude] Goddess of Death vs. Bucky

When Steve caught scarlet fever, and the Morrigan went from haunting the street outside to perching on his windowsill again, that Sarah accepted that maybe _this_ time, Steve wouldn’t survive. He should have died so many times in his life, and they all knew Bucky had done _good_ for him, leaving her going _months_ without thinking _this was it_ for her _ghrain_ , but _this_ time, it looked like there was nothing they could do. So, with a heavy heart, Sarah called for the priest as Winifred prepared herself to do the same for Bucky, if Steve _did_ pass, when her boy died of a broken heart.

(Bucky never _did_ tell anyone that after the priest had left after giving Steve Last Rites, and it had been just him, Steve and Sarah, that they’d been _visited_.

His grandfather had seemed to _know_ though, pulling him close the next morning with his large cool hands framing his face, thumbs brushing under his eyes as they’d touched forehead-to-forehead, saying in a tongue he shouldn’t know for how archaic it was but _did_ , voice _heavy_ with emotion, “ _My blood runs thick in you, my boy, just like my first son. A true_ Dracula _in every sense. You make me so proud, Iakov._ ”)

He’d remained _glued_ to Steve’s side, holding him to his chest as if to anchor to the living, refusing to let him _go_ , when a grotesque woman had appeared abruptly, suddenly.

She’d seemed to spring from the very shadows in the dark room, between one blink and the next, before the red-eyed crow that had always been haunting Steve flew through their closed window like it wasn’t even there, to rest on the woman’s outstretched arm.

Her death-pale skin had seemed to sag and cling too tight over her bones, one eye the milky white of the dead as the other remained a too-vibrant unearthly green, as she’d been dressed in a dirty soot-stained shroud-like garment. Then he’d blinked, and a shimmer cascaded over her from her grey streaked hair to her leather-booted feet, that was more felt than _seen_ as a wave of static over his skin, before the woman suddenly looked more his mother’s age with ink black hair and the faintest flush to her pale skin, both eyes that unearthly green, dressed in a leather-and-metal tight-fitting armor.

Without turning from her, every instinct he _had_ that she was _dangerous_ in a way that put even his _grandfather_ – the most _dangerous_ person he knew – to shame, he glanced at Sarah, to see if she was seeing what he was, but she remained asleep, all but dead to the world. Her breathe was so _slow_ and deep that he reflexively reached out to land a hand atop her chest to feel that she really still _breathed_.

(Steve would be _sad_ if she died.)

A dry voice that sounded like the bells rang after funerals, low and haunting and deep, spoke in the quiet – an absolute quiet, he couldn’t even hear the normal sounds of New York at night, like they were on a different plane of existence than the rest of the world – sounded puzzled as she looked directly at him, “Why do you remain aware?”

A chill raced down his spine when _despite him not looking away_ , she’d moved so much closer between the space of one toll of her bell-like voice and the next, until she was half-leaning over them, her long hair falling partially over her face.

He curled tighter around Steve, shifting until Steve lay half under him in the shelter of his shadow, unaware of how his eyes flashed gold in the gloom or how the shadows twisted out around him like leather wings over the other two in the bed with him, baring sharp teeth as _she_ was _Death_ and he would _fight_ her over Steve, “No, you can’t have him!”

There was a flash of recognition – or maybe understanding – in her eyes, before her lips twisted sharply in amusement, “Ah, so _this_ is the dragon’s soul that has held my Morrigan at bay these last few Midgardian years. I _had_ wondered why this soul remained _here_ instead of being brought to Valhalla where it belongs.”

She tapped her long black nails against her red-painted lips, just watching him for a moment, before sliding a hand up her scalp and Bucky could only watch in awe as her hair twitched and twisted up into a helmet of sharp antlers, “Father named me the Goddess of Death for my ability to bring death on the battlefield, but the title has . . _evolved_ in the millennia since. Death is my domain, and the dead and dying are my subject, and my subjects alone. _This child_ is _mine_ to take, and no one can take him from _me_ , not _even_ upstart dragonlings like yourself.”

His hands tightened on the blankets on either side of Steve’s shoulders as his eyes narrowed dangerously because she’d made a _threat_ and he would return it tenfold if it was the last thing he did.

(And he’d learned from the _best_ , then watched Steve for what felt like a lifetime take the same sentiment and make it a _challenge_ that was bared teeth and sharp claws with defiance running through his veins instead of blood.)

Every line of his whole body was _fight me then!_ and the woman just paused with her hand flipped out towards them as the other held up that arm by the elbow, before laughing – and it was a dry laugh, clacking and grating like grinding bone and metal together – “You certainly go some spunk, dragonling! It reminds me of Fenrir as a pup when I found him after his mother was killed, and he _dared_ to still fight me with everything he had in that little body because I came for her.”

She eyed him again with a new light in her gaze, before she reached out faster than he could track and flicked him on the nose _hard_.

Bucky blinked green sparkles from his gaze, dazed as his ears run with the force behind the gesture, and it took a couple of seconds to realize that he’d been knocked on his back at Steve’s feet. He’d quickly scrambled up, about to fling himself back over Steve when he saw that her touch was gentle as she brushed his sweat-soaked bangs from his forehead with thin fingertips sparking with green, and it halted him mid-move, because he didn’t _think_ she was doing anything to Steve even if her _touch_ made his hair stand on end.

He still watched her warily, because _Goddess of Death_.

It wasn’t until he saw the way she _looked_ at Steve that he acted, all but hissing aloud as he pulled Steve back by his ankles closer to him and farther from _her_ , to put him at his back while his eyes went _gold_ and warmth built in his chest as he glared at her.

It just got him an indulgent look, like he was a kitten patting at a queen’s tail and missing, before she was looking at _Steve_ again, “Despite how the Three Sisters pluck at his Thread with each sickness, his soul remains as strong as ever. Stronger even, with the way your Thread has coiled around his, twining together into one Thread for two. Even if we disregard your combined Thread, his Thread is . . _perplexing_. No _mortal_ soul should be able to survive so long in such a weak body. Others in much stronger bodies have died from less, and _yet_ . . he continues to live in this mortal realm.”

A faint pout settled on her cracked lips, “It almost makes me wonder if he could wield my brother’s Mjölnir.”

Bucky blinked at the pout, realizing suddenly that at some point since she’d flicked him on the nose like a disobedient _dog_ , that her hair had fallen down her back once more, because it felt _weird_ on her face. It was soft, on a sharp face with eyes like his father’s that had seen hell and had never really _left_ there, and it _shouldn’t_ fit, but it lifted years off her face and showed her like she really _was_ , if one _ignored_ everything that made her clearly _not_ human.

(Not that _he_ had much room to talk, because his grandfather hadn’t been _human_ in a _long_ time, and his blood ran _strong_ in their family.)

Just a woman in her late twenties, battle-hardened and battle-worn.

He was distracted from her when Steve’s breathing began to strengthen, and he almost missed how she took her leave in the same manner that she’d arrived, if not for how she’d paused and looked back at him with fathomless eyes, something almost like _pity_ in them, “Your boy there, for all that his _soul_ is strong, his _body_ is weak. So even if he may not have died _today_ , he will die, someday soon. Be prepared, dragonling, for the day he leaves you.”

He gave her a too-bright toothy smile, “Is this a test? I’ll follow him into hell.”

She’d just _laughed_.

Once she was gone, he’d known that he’d met _Death_ that night, challenged her and _survived_ such impudence, but while Steve lived to see the morning, it had been just a reprieve. Steve’s days were numbered, and they weren’t anywhere near the number that he – that all those of his grandfather’s blood – had, but he wouldn’t let that stop him.

If her words were ringing prophecy, he would just have to prove her _wrong_ ; Steve _would_ outlive him, even if it was by just a moment, because it would be _cruel_ to expect any more than that of Steve.

( _Then he forgot all this, the memory washed away beneath arcs of electricity and pain to just,_ I’ll follow him into hell _and a_ laugh _no human could ever make._

 _The green hiding in his eyes, tinting his pupils with an unearthly light, never_ did _go away._

 _And neither did Steve’s, bursting out into the blue like a ring of green fire._ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #Score: 0-3


	6. a lifetime together.

Steve ultimately recovered mostly whole from a bout with scarlet fever despite Last Rites being called for, aside from the loss of most of his hearing in his left ear.

Not that he let it stop him, or slow him down in the slightest.

The only thing that _really_ changed after that was that Bucky quickly took to walking on his left, and would lean over him from behind to speak directly into his right ear if he had something to say without letting the whole world know.

( _Before the serum, few people ever came to know that he was functioning deaf in his left ear. It wasn’t obvious, and mostly didn’t affect him, so in the end the only ones to_ know _were the Barnes family, his mother, Dr. Erskine, and Peggy._

 _After, it was just_ another _example of how much_ better _his life supposedly got_ because _of the serum._ )

Between the Barnes and his mother, Steve wasn’t held back by a little deafness when they accommodated it without being in-his-face over another obstacle in the way of him living his life.

( _His pride had kept him from mentioning all that they did for him, and Steve_ regretted _never telling them all how much he’d appreciated all that they’d done to help him adapt to the loss. Particularly how they didn’t draw attention to it, or how his balance had been all fucked-up those first few weeks until he’d gotten used to the constant feeling of vertigo._ )

He _remembered_ how a few months later, after his birthday had come and gone without half of his hearing – which, really, was a bit of a _blessing_ with the fireworks – his mother must have said something to their priest during Confession, because one Sunday – after he’d Confessed about still getting into fights trying to stop bullies and worrying his mother and Bucky in the process; and _very_ carefully about nothing that could be found Abnormal – the priest had given him a little booklet that looked like it had been passed around half the neighborhood, without a single word about it.

The booklet had been a beginner’s book of American Sign Language for the Deaf.

At first, he’d been offended – because he’d been functioning _fine_ , dammit, it wasn’t like he couldn’t hear entirely or had suddenly become _mute_ – but then Bucky had seen the booklet and his eyes had damn near _sparkled_ with excitement, and it had quietly faded.

It was hard to be annoyed when Bucky was just so _excited_ about something, because he _loved_ learning new things – even if he _did_ hate the institution since it penalized him for being left-handed, for slipping into his native Russian when he couldn’t remember the English word for it – but he most _especially_ thought learning another language was the _coolest_ thing _ever_.

( _Steve_ remembered _that Bucky had always had an_ ear _for languages, picking up slang and dialects within days, differentiate between them in hours, able to switch between dozens of them in a week, and loving every second of it._

 _Military Intelligence had_ loved _him for it, because within five minutes he could figure out when someone was faking false origins, or didn’t belong there, and could translate any number of transmissions they picked that others struggled with._

Steve _had loved when it was Bucky’s turn to regale the squad with stories, because his best friend was an asshole that would slip into any accent, use slang like a native, and was_ blatantly _gleeful when the other men couldn’t snap out of their full-fledged accents for_ hours _after he sharpened their edges. It had been a_ delight _when he’d managed to do so to Peggy on the sly, and they’d gotten to hear her native Manchester accent instead of her usual posh upper-class one, or the Cambridge she took up when a scientist got uppity with her and tried to act like she_ didn’t _understand every word they said._ )

Even if Bucky already _knew_ five different languages fluently to Steve’s two going on four haltingly.

(Because the Barnes side of the family was half-Roma, half-Romanian, and the Eckerstein side were devout Russian Orthodox Jews, and Steve just had his first-generation Irish immigrant mother but spent a _lot_ of time at the Barnes’.)

The fact though that they knew of no deaf people made learning ASL particularly important, because then it could be nearly all _theirs_ , and theirs _alone_. So, Steve learned because Bucky was learning it with a fervor, more diligently practicing hand-signs than doing his homework for class most of the time.

(It probably said a _lot_ about them that as they got better at it, and got tired of signing out their names letter by letter, when they fell into name-signs for each other, Bucky called him a combination of _punk_ and _trouble_ , and he called Bucky _asshole_ , with the sexual sign because he was _unrepentantly_ a shit and it made Bucky laugh.)

His mother learned a bit of the language, as did Becca, just from exposure, but little Evie – with her legs weakened from the polio she’d caught a few months before he’d gotten scarlet fever – took to learning the language like a bird did to flight.

(Then, because Bucky was an overachiever – even if no one but Bucky’s family would _believe_ him about it – Bucky added Gaelic to his list of languages.

Bucky had known a splattering of it before they became friends, and learned more from overhearing his mother going off into rants about the British after getting sporadic news from cousins he had back in the Old Country. He had become _fluent_ in it though, out of _spite_ after Steve had called his neighbor a pair of bare baby’s balls waxed in geese fat for startling him so bad that he’d tripped up the stairs, and had refused to tell Bucky what he’d said afterwards. Mostly so he could straight-faced ask why he knew this about his neighbor because Bucky was a _asshole_.)

They both learned Italian over the years with how often they were at Sofia’s house with Becca though.

Their fluency earned them their first jobs running messages around the neighborhood between those that could hardly speak to each other with only their broken English and too much of their native language filling in the gaps, in the summer of 1928.

~

 _In his dreams, after that first one, fragments of other memories started to come back, escaping the ethereal blue wall at the back of his mind and he began to_ remember _._

 _And he remembered his_ name, Steve; _he_ had _always known it, and always_ would _, no matter what was done to his head. He_ remembered _, and they couldn’t make him forget_ forever _._

 _It came back easier and easier each time he_ remembered _after it was stolen again, because he_ refused _to let_ Steve _be_ forgotten _. Because, how_ could _he? They’d_ always _been Steve-and-Bucky, Bucky-and-Steve, and_ always would be _._

 _After his name, he began to remember_ other _things. At first, they were just other moments of Steve; “Who made you king of the castle?” – crooked smiles – bright eyes – bony hands too big for his small body, callused and scarred but so kind – deep laughs, snorts, wheezy chuckles – the feeling of pulling a pair of bony shoulders close into his side because that was where they_ belonged _– writing with his hands, calling him_ punk, _calling him_ trouble.

~

When it was spring again in 1927, the Barnes children were invited to an older cousin’s bar mitzvah.

(Steve, because he spent so much time with them, and generally just considered another Barnes child at this point, was invited by proxy.

When Steve had been followed after, there had been a _look_ in Bucky’s eyes as he’d pulled him through his aunt’s doorway that just _dared_ anyone to tell him otherwise.)

Bucky’s father, George, had grumbled a lot about going, because the public’s mood had been turning against Jews, a mirror of what was happening across the Atlantic. He’d grumbled that going would just bring attention to how while they weren’t out-and-out Jews – and Steve was a little fuzzy on _what_ that meant, but Bucky told it was something about how it was because Winifred had married outside of the faith, and as such her kids weren’t _real_ Jews to the more traditional – but Winifred had shut him down and _insisted_.

( _In a couple of years, once he’d gotten orders to ignore an internment camp in favor of continuing onto a Hydra base in Poland and he’d ignored the_ orders _with the Howling Commandos at his back, and_ seen _what the increasing anti-Semitism mood lead to, and the dangers it brought. And he couldn’t blame George for just trying to protect his family, because he’d looked into a boy’s eyes there as he’d scratched at the number left on his skin, and they were darker than Bucky’s after Azzano._

_That boy hadn’t even been eleven and there was the promise in those eyes that he’d find everyone involved with making him an orphan. And he’d looked the other way as Bucky had given little Erik some hunting tips to find the bastards that had escaped their assault._

_Before they stood on ground drowning in pain and grief and blood, he’d realize that Winifred had insisted on them going because she’d_ agreed _with her husband, and while she’d accepted that she couldn’t give her boy the bar mitzvah she wanted, she refused to not him have her heritage while she could._ )

While they were there, their Russian was put to good use because it had been unanimously been decided that while the land that they stood on was American, this house was a piece of the homeland they’d fled during the Revolution.

(Steve also finally learned some Yiddish since Winifred was surprisingly tight-lipped about them teaching him, as some of Bucky’s uncles couldn’t seem to keep what language they were speaking straight and just flipped back and forth mid-sentence as they gossiped in one corner, and he extrapolated from what he understood.

Bucky had just seemed amused at the whole thing as he periodically corrected his pronunciation and grammar without teaching him a single word more, before Winifred smacked the older men for talking about what was starting to happen to their German cousins with kids around.)

Then Bucky had won a candy ring from one of the games all the kids were playing – that Steve felt a little weird playing, since despite being _thought_ of as a Barnes, he wasn’t actually one of the family and he didn’t want to cause that sort of trouble if he upset someone for it – and instead of giving it to Becca, had given it to _him_.

Almost immediately, they’d both blushed – because neither of them had thought of it as just a piece of candy but a _ring_ , and that _Bucky had given him a **ring**_ and what that _meant_ – before Bucky’s chin had lifted and he’d refused to take it back in the short moment before Ana called for him, wanting her big brother’s help to win herself a prize.

(Steve _could_ have pocketed it then and there, then pretended it didn’t happen, but he didn’t – couldn’t – because if Bucky had _asked_ right then and there, Bucky would have immediately blurted out _yes_ , but he knew it wouldn’t happen.)

( _He’d known it would never happen, even if they ever named what was between them, but in that moment after Bucky had given him the ring and before he’d slowly gone off towards his sister, he’d imagined it._

 _Now, he_ dreamed _of having grabbed Bucky’s hands before he could walk away and saying_ yes, yes, yes! _because he had_ always _imagined a life where they grew old together, and had_ never _dared to chance that it could be_ together, _like man and wife._

 _Then, he’d later_ make _himself believe that it had been a coincidence that it had been a ring – and not Bucky going after the candy ring with a single-minded purpose, because there was only a few of them among the prizes and he_ wanted _one._

 _Now, he called himself ten kinds of idiot because Bucky_ had _been declaring his intent to the_ world _, even if it been just his family there, and he’d convinced himself it was just a coincidence that it had been a_ ring _when Bucky didn’t_ ask _later._ )

(Maybe, it would have been just another _almost-said_ moment in their tragedy and star-crossed love, if it had been seen by someone who supported them whole-heartedly.)

Bucky’s maternal grandmother, Ariel Eckerstein, had seemed to come out of the woodwork then, and smiled wide and bright as she’d dragged to one corner of the room, sat him down, and held him hostage by the hands that cradled that candy ring as she’d leaned close.

Then she’d sought a promise from him.

A promise that _one day_ , he would make an honest man out of her wild grandson.

Steve had turned so red that he’d quickly felt a bit light-head, and his almost comically wide eyes had immediately sought out Bucky, because if anyone _else_ heard her they would just think her senile, but he – and Bucky – would be labelled Abnormal, as perverting the natural order for giving her a _reason_ to think they were like _that_ and not immediately denying it with disgust.

(Because she’d _named_ what was between them, even then, before it was anything other than a deep affection, and incredible fondness, a love that wasn’t clearly defined as one thing or another, that would only grow into _more_ the longer they danced around it.

Because she’d had the _courage_ to _say_ it, and he didn’t, but he knew if Bucky _heard her_ , he would confirm it, and maybe, _maybe_ , they’d _be_ what she said they were.)

She continued as she’d meet her grandson’s eyes across the room, because only the blind wouldn’t see how the two of them only had eyes for each other even if others were play ignorant, whispering into Steve’s ears with a _wicked_ smile that Bucky had inherited, that when he fulfilled this promise, that she would make _him_ the most beautiful bride there ever had been for Bucky in return.

His face was _burning_ as Bucky had quickly dragged him away, shuffling him close to his side as he made signs into Steve’s hand asking if he was _okay_.

(Steve didn’t say anything about the promise she’d masterfully extracted from him, because _how was he supposed to refuse something he wanted with everything he had_.)

( _He never did say anything about it, even if he never really forgot._ )

In the winter of 1930, when she died at sixty-nine, that he was abruptly reminded of the promise when he heard George occasionally mutter about the old woman leaving stipulations in her will that couldn’t be fulfilled.

( _He_ remembered _finding out what stipulation the older Barnes had been talking about when the rabbi Ariel had been close to visited him the month after she’d died, when he’d had pneumonia and his mother had called again for Last Rites and it had been a rabbi that time to give them instead of a priest._

 _He_ remembered _the rabbi telling him in a whisper that he needed to_ fight _, that Ariel would have wanted him to keep her promise to him because she_ would _keep hers, even beyond the grave._

 _He_ remembered _that in the years that followed, George would periodically grumble about his crafty mother-in-law that she’d left part of her will in trust through her rabbi for when ‘Bucky married that friend he’d been sweet on since forever’ and how he didn’t who she’d been talking about. Steve had never failed to color at the mention of Ariel’s will, because with each year that passed and George started grumbling about contesting the will because ‘clearly, Bucky was never going to marry any girl from the neighborhood when he valued Steve more than any dame’, he_ knew _Ariel would hold up her end of their promise._ )

Then, once she’d died, George Barnes had refused to hear any talk about anything Jewish in his house – told his wife to be careful how much she met with her sisters, with her cousins – because that was when whispers started to go through the neighborhood that it was the Jews that had drawn God’s wrath and brought this famine upon them, and he sounded _scared_ about that.

That was when it had become official that Bucky wouldn’t have a bar mitzvah of his own on his twelfth birthday in the coming August, and the girls would have bat mitzvah either, to not have them considered Jews.

(Not for a _very_ long time would he find out that the rabbi had intended to see Ariel’s will fulfilled, as he when old and on his last breaths, had entrusted his promise to see that the old woman’s side of the promise _was_ done, to the married Becca, for the day that they were brought home, even if just in death.)

~

_In his dreams, after that first one, fragments of other memories started to come back, escaping the ethereal blue wall at the back of his mind._

_And he began to_ remember _._

 _He remembered the blond’s_ name, Steve; _he_ had _always known it, and always_ would _, no matter what was done to his head; he_ remembered _, and they couldn’t_ make _him forget_ forever _._

 _Then the memories started to come back easier and easier each time he_ remembered _after they was stolen again, because he_ refused _to let_ Steve _be_ forgotten _. Because, how_ could _he? They’d_ always _been Steve-and-Bucky, Bucky-and-Steve, and_ always would be _._

 _After the blond’s name, he began to remember_ other _things. At first, they were just other moments of Steve; “Who made you king of the castle?” – crooked smiles – bright eyes – bony hands too big for his small body, callused and scarred but so kind – deep laughs; snorts; wheezy chuckles – the feeling of pulling a pair of bony shoulders close into his side because that was where he_ belonged _– writing with his hands, calling him_ punk, _calling him_ trouble.

~

When the market crashed, Steve _remembered_ where he’d been when they found out.

( _Just like_ every _American would_ remember _; and for Pearl Harbor a decade after this_.)

He’d been dictating the transcript of the suffragist movement his mother was a part of, when one of the women that had been running late came in pale-faced, and told them, “It’s gone, it’s all _gone_.”

(He _remembered_ not understanding what she’d meant, that none of them had, and she hadn’t helped clarify it before they cut that meeting short because none of them could focus.)

He _remembered_ the slow realization that had come in the days that followed, a shock hanging over the nation about how the Stock Market had crashed, until it had _processed_. Then, in short order, there had been pandemonium.

Most of the neighborhood had been convinced over the last couple of years that investing would double, even _triple_ their money, and now, they rushed to withdraw their savings before they lost it all.

(His mother had just given him a small smile, and told him of how her family had always been turned away from English banks _just_ for being Irish and that after they’d immigrated over while she was a kid, their money hadn’t never gone into a bank. Then she’d pulled up one of their floorboards – coincidentally, the one right next to where he kept his drawings of Bucky – and showed him the cookie tin she’d hidden there, and how inside it was all of their savings.

As they’d sat on a curb, watching their neighborhood implode, Bucky told him that his mother hadn’t trusted the banks either. That his grandmother Ariel had never let them forget how in the Revolution everyone’s money had been seized for the commonwealth; that _their_ money had taken by the government because they’d _had_ some money – just enough to not worry about going hungry. The family had fled Russia shortly after with pretty much only what they could carry and the little bit of money they could scrap together to pay for passage, and even after immigrating, they’d never quite trusted a bank again.

Because of these things, they didn’t fare as badly as some of their neighbors.)

The winter after the Crash was _terrible._

 _No one_ could stay they didn’t know someone who died that winter: from the cold, from sickness, from starvation; with people left and right losing their jobs, losing their homes.

They were managing until his mother got sick and couldn’t work, and their landlord couldn’t afford to let them stay without paying rent, then they were among the dozens that came to live in the tent towns that sprung up all over the city for a few weeks.

(His mother had always been a feminist, a suffragist, a unionist, and had become an abortionist at some point in his childhood; somebody women went to, gathered around, trusting that she would give them a voice and act in their best interest. While he’d been told that his father had been for equal rights, against the immigration restrictions in place for such prejudiced reasons as race.

He’d _grown up_ hearing all these _ideas,_ but it was here in the tent towns that he was introduced to socialism. Though he’d originally come to find out what the _difference_ between socialism and communism _was_ since they sounded so similar, but Winifred hadn’t really explained where the line between the two was, and recommended that he go to one of these meetings at some point, and now was as good of a time as any.

He’d been particularly curious because Winifred, instead of taking God’s name in vain, called people communists or cursed them to live under communism, yet considered herself a socialist like there _was_ a difference between the two.

Bucky always sat long-suffering with him as he listened to socialists, because while even Steve agreed the ideals were nice, he always got into shouting matches over the practical side and sometimes had to be dragged out before he started a fistfight then and there. Other times, it was Bucky who stomped off when he felt the talk was getting too close to communism versus socialism and it who Steve chased after him. Regardless of how they left those meetings, Bucky was always muttering under his breathe about how his ‘righteous’ streak, born and bred into him to stand up against injustice, had needed no encouragement – and that this was just throwing fuel on that fire.)

Luckily, only a month before they’d been invited/strong-armed into the Barnes home.

(Not that there had been _room_ for them in the small two-bedroom apartment with three adults and four kids already, but when it had started to snow earlier than expected, they made it work.

They were proud though, and even if they’d be forever grateful that they hadn’t been out on the streets – where with their precarious health, it would have surely had resulted in the Morrigan coming to call for one or both of them – as soon as his mother had scraped together the money, they’d rented a new apartment, this one even smaller than before and in a worse part of the neighborhood.

( _Which had been actually rather impressive, since they’d already been in one of the worse parts of Brooklyn by the time that he’d been four, and the only way they’d gotten somewhere_ worse _was moving into a place where someone had been brutally murdered_.)

Winifred had made it clear that if they ever needed it again, their home was open to them.

( _Steve_ remembered _how Bucky had cornered him before they’d moved out, all but bodily pinning down so he couldn’t escape, before begging that if it came down to it, that he’d swallow his pride and stay with them instead of the streets._

 _He_ remembered _the fear in Bucky’s eyes._

 _He_ remembered _agreeing without a fight, because he was proud, but if it was a choice between his pride and his life, he’d swallow his pride. He agreed, but it hadn’t come down to it – even if had come close a few times._

 _He_ remembered _how each time Bucky had seemed to_ know _, on edge for_ weeks _because they’d dug their heels in and were stretching every cent they had to max to keep the apartment when his mother never did get her full hours back, until they weren’t flirting with not being able to pay rent. He_ remembered _how Winifred sent Bucky with food for them more days than not, those weeks, and how Bucky would conveniently ‘leave behind’ clothes that were too small for himself but would fit_ him.)

~

 _There were other things, other moments he remembered, with nothing to do with Steve; a woman who shared his eyes that smiled at him and pulled his small hand to her rounded stomach and feeling a kick when he did – holding three smaller bodies close within his arms and making a promise to protect them – a drunk man with a harder version of his face waving a gun at him, accusing him of things – the taste of cigarette smoke – an older grey-haired man with his face pulling him close and calling him_ Iakov _– the feel of promenade on his hand after slicking his hair back – a blue pin-striped suit._

 _It was here, frozen, that he began to pull together his memory, protected behind a blue wall that couldn’t be breached, and he_ remembered.

_Awake, he couldn’t remember much, words and things slipping through his fingers like sand sinking beneath the blue water._

_Awake, the_ _Сол_ д _а_ т _was all this body was, and handlers named objectives and missions to do._

 _Awake, they looked for Steve, and waited, watching for when their handlers slipped up, gave them freedom they assumed the_ _Сол_ д _а_ т couldn’t _take._


	7. to live is to experience death -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #Canonical Character Death  
> #Implied Underage Prostitution (off-screen) #Implied Attempted Sexual Assault (that doesn't last long) #Off-screen murder

He was twelve when his mother (finally) told him that she was _sick_ – that she was _dying_.

( _He_ remembered _finding out because she hadn’t looked_ well _in a long while, maybe_ never _in his memory but he hadn’t known better, that was how she’d_ always _looked. He hadn’t realized how_ bad _it had gotten until after those few weeks on the streets, then he hadn’t been able to_ not _see._

 _He’d watched her like a hawk, afraid she’d just pass in the night and he’d wake to the_ bean sidhe _’s scream as she coughed and coughed, bags under her tight eyes and her skin pale and looking paper-thin. Then he’d seen the_ blood _on her lips, splattered on her hand in thick globs_.)

By the time he was thirteen, he was _desperate_ for money, and something like half of the city was out of work.

By this point, he’d been earning pennies running messages back and forth with Bucky through the neighborhood for years, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t _nowhere near_ enough, not just for rent and food, but to have his mother get what treatment she could even at this late stage.

( _He_ remembered _how she’d known she’d been dying slowly for a_ long _time even before he was there for them to declare that she had tuberculosis. Her smile had been wan as she’d told him that she’d known for a_ while _that she’d die like this; she’d been a_ watch-girl _and she’d seen too many of her friends from those days get like this, die like this, to_ not _know her fate._

 _Tears had been in her eyes as she’d cupped his face in her hands, blood staining her lips_ red _, as she’d apologized for taking him down with her – because his health issues, they were a direct result of her being sick like this while she’d been pregnant with him. She’d been blessed to have had him after being a watch-girl when so many others miscarried, but in taking that blessing, she’d cursed him to this painful life too._

 _He_ remembered _the tears in his own eyes as he said he’d rather live this life than none at all, and he’d never blamed her for any of this – he was_ proud _, was_ happy _, to call her_ his _mother_.)

Even if they couldn’t _fix_ her – like they couldn’t _fix_ him – he’d wanted to give her _relief_. Something to ease the _pain_ she was in, so much that she struggled to hide it but the drugs weren’t cheap.

( _He_ remembered _begging the doctor to know if there was_ anything _that he could do for her, but she’d cut him off – there wasn’t. There were_ some _things they could do to extend her life, but she wouldn’t be_ living _by then, just doped up on pain killers as the days stretched in a haze, present but not_ aware _._

 _She told him that it would be a hell like that what awaited sinners, and she’d rather be in full possession of her wits than live like_ that.

 _And he didn’t want her to suffer just for_ his _sake – just because he hadn’t been able to even imagine a world where she was_ gone _– so he’d accepted her wishes.)_

Drugs weren’t cheap – and it was a whole new level of _messed_ _up_ that it would be cheaper to get her illegal drugs than prescription grade, and would be worth the risks of prison time, since any sort of addiction _wasn’t_ a concern considering her remaining life span, if they _worked_ – so he needed a job that paid _better_ , because semi-legal and illegal drugs might be cheap _er_ but still weren’t _cheap_ – and that meant he started paying _attention_ to those less-than-savory rumors of earning money less conventionally.

(Like how by the Navy dock, a fella could earn coin by turning tricks. Where if you were _desperate_ and waited in an alleyway by a certain _type_ of club – one where men who liked other men went – in that area run by the mafia during certain hours, you could earn a few coins.)

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

(And just _once_ could earn him more money that he could get doing pretty much any other job for a week, being as frail and sick-prone as he was, particularly for as young as he was since the _real_ jobs had child labor restrictions in place.)

And he wasn’t the only one to consider doing as much.

(As much as no one would _openly_ talk about it, more than a few boys in their neighborhood – a bit older than him, particularly if they couldn’t get work stocking stores or working the docks themselves where a blind eye was turned regarding them being a ‘bit’ young – had turned tricks as money got tighter, more so now after the Crash with more people stressed-out and willing to pay, and more people desperate enough to make money like that.)

The thing was though, that it went unspoken that if you saw somebody you knew loitering in that area, you didn’t talk about, pretended you neither knew them or saw them, because chances were, you’d be down there yourself soon enough if you hadn’t gone already. Similarly unspoken and yet _acknowledged_ was that if somebody was down there, they were just doing what they had to survive these hard times, and _don’t ask don’t tell_.

It didn’t mean that there weren’t rumors regardless, about who frequented the area the _most_.

(About who went down there for more than _necessity_.)

( _Steve_ **never** _told Bucky about how almost half the fights that he’d had after mid-way through ‘33 up to the start of ’35 being about how he’d heard someone saying Bucky had pretty lips made to suck cock. Even if he’d been defending his honor – and maybe, partially, because he’d seen red at the image that had popped into his head the first time he’d heard as much._

 _And_ Bucky _**never** told _him _that some of the rumors he’d heard were_ true _. That some of the coin that they both knew he’d slipped Sarah, or just outright used himself to pay for rent and medicine after she’d died, had come around from turning tricks until he’d been scouted for_ other _sorts of jobs. He_ also _never said a_ word _about the rumors that had start going around about Steve’s slight frame and how with a little_ work _, he’d make a pretty dame, good enough to fuck from behind – and how many faces he’d had to break and bloody to shut them up over that._

 _Though Steve_ remembered _how at a glare from him – them – that the last time they’d both been in Brooklyn had some of those douchebags turning pale and quickly going the opposite way, not willing to come anywhere near let alone cross paths._ )

After having resolved himself that this was the only way if he wanted to get himself the money for some drugs – some for her pain, some because she was having problems breathing and she needed something stronger than what he had for his asthma – for his mother – maybe if there was some extra coin, some for himself too – and steeling his spine before he chickened out, he waited in that alleyway for _hours_.

(As he’d started sniffling, _cold – so very_ **cold** – about an hour in, he’d _known_ that he’d get a cold for this, and he’d _just_ been sick last week, they couldn’t _afford_ for him to lay around in bed until he started getting better, but he’d stayed for another couple of hours because if he was going to be sick, this _better_ be worth it.

Never realizing that while the mafia had turned a bit of a blind eye to the unaffiliated non-organized prostitution going on by their doorstep, they _didn’t_ turn a blind eye to the younger teens and scared off any possible johns that might have approached them – and that the few interested parties for Steve had had a few years shaved off their lives.)

Just as he was about to leave, giving up after five _very cold_ hours, he was approached by someone he _knew_ was in the mafia.

(It was in the suit, the fedora, the blood red tie. Maybe not everyone would be able to tell, but Steve was _good_ with finding patterns.

It was also in the way he moved, self-assured and just a bit cocky, just a bit _dangerous_. The fact that he couldn’t hide that _dangerous_ like Bucky did, like the elder Barnes did, with it oozing out like George did, said everything about how _actually_ dangerous he was; more than the average sort, with combat experience, with a life-and-death experience combined, but not the familiar _piss-me-off-and-I’ll-wipe-your-whole-bloodline-out-in-retaliation_ that Bucky was learning off his grandfather.)

The man asked him to carry a few packages from behind the club to other places, offered him coin that he couldn’t refuse.

(And, how could he? The man offered a dollar bill without _hesitation_ , without _pause_ , like flashing a dollar wasn’t a _significant_ loss.

His mother earned a _couple_ of dollars, just _barely_ , for a _full_ shift. Even Bucky didn’t earn more than fifty cents at a time when he went off to do _something_.)

So, Steve ran packages for the man – very careful to _not_ think about what be in the 1’X1’ crate; too light for weapons, not dense-weighted enough, or leaving him with a buzz under his skin or lethargic enough to be drugs, but the scent of alcohol eased his sense of _this is wrong_ enough to keep coming back for another package – once a week, for four months, earning more coin here, like this, than most of the neighborhood put together for the same amount of time.

Delivering those packages told him where some of the underground speakeasies were.

He _refused_ to feel guilty about pickpocketing people there, not when they acted like George Barnes when the man had too much to drink with money that people like his mother and Winifred _desperately_ needed to keep themselves afloat.

(And if he knew the men, it was _easy_ to take their money, then drop it off with their wives when he came home – and never needing to say a word to them about where the money had come from, because they _knew_ where he was, where their husbands _were_.

It made him feel a bit like that English folk hero, Robin Hood.)

( _He_ remembered _Bucky catching him doing so one day, and just raising a single judgmental eyebrow at him. Then he’d sighed long-suffering, and said, “Only you, you punk, would take money you need just as bad and give it to the poor regardless of your own need.”_

 _He_ remembered _how Bucky had ruffled his hair – because_ maybe _he didn’t spend as much time as_ Bucky _on his hair, he_ still _styled it_ just _right for the puppy-dog look Bucky said was his best asset when they were in trouble, and that took_ time _– and ignored the aggrieved noise he’d made for the action, “Luckily, you got me, so you’ll be_ fine _despite your best efforts otherwise.”_ )

That job led him to finding out about Ms. Clare’s.

(Ms. Clare’s was where you wanted a lady of the night with a bed, wanted a show, wanted a drink; sometimes all of those things before the night was up.)

The girls at Ms. Clare’s were nice to him, and he rather liked them as well, even if they thought him _cute_ for treating them like dames that he could bring home to his mother.

( _Jenny had a crude sense of humor that never failed to make him color, and spit-take to her glee._

_Martha had a crooked smile, and the greenest eyes he’d ever seen, and always blushed when he asked to draw her, fully clothed, despite her profession._

_Cecily could tell stories for hours about the ten little brothers and sisters she had that she was helping to support since her father had died in the War._

_Jackie could talk circles around anyone, with a silver tongue that could get her out of whatever situation her best friend Jenny inevitably got them in._

_Each and every one of them he would have been_ proud _of to bring home to his mother, because he_ remembered _how she had argued with the priest during mass when he was ten. She’d argued then that Jesus had forgiven Mary Magdalene for doing only what she’d needed to survive, regardless of how the rest of the world would have thought her sullied for the same, so prostitutes should be welcomed in church just the same as the rest of them. It was a similar lesson he’d given to the soldiers that he’d seen get the shakes over killing a man over the course of the war, where while he’d ignored Bucky’s quiet mutter of_ dead is dead, doesn’t matter how, and guilt doesn’t help a man survive war, Steve; _to say God wouldn’t consider it a sin to kill if it was survival – if it was a mercy kill of the dying._ )

One of the times when he was delivering a crate to Ms. Clare’s, waiting to get the little slip of paper saying the delivery had been made – Cecily’s little brother Peter was writing it out, but he wasn’t very good with letters yet so it took a little bit – he’d been sketching on a napkin, one of the girls’ acts and Ms. Clare had seen and hired him on the spot to draw her fliers to advertise her more legal services.

She paid him less for six days’ work than the one night of acting as a courier, but he vastly preferred that job.

( _Most_ of the time, he was sure that he was just dropping off drink to speakeasies, but sometimes, he had the _sense_ that he wasn’t – and while he couldn’t be _sure_ without popping the lid, sometimes the crate had a certain dense-weight – which wasn’t even accounting for how sometimes, he was just carrying paper parcels and that shouldn’t have felt _dangerous_ , but did; the job _really_ didn’t sit well with him.

He wanted _out_ before he was knowingly complicit in something a lot _worse_ than smuggling alcohol through Prohibition, but he needed the money too much to just _walk away_.)

He _remembered_ thanking _God_ for the fact that Ms. Clare had hired him on, so he wasn’t back to just running messages for pennies back in the neighborhood and was still making decent money, when one of his runs went _wrong_ and his less-than-legal courier job was rather abruptly _done_.

( _The man he’d usually met with had been sick that week, and he_ remembered _feeling uneasy seeing this new man here, because it went unspoken – don’t trust new faces in case it’s the police on a sting – but he’d approached anyway, because if he skipped and the man said he’d handed over the crate without him having a ‘package delivered’ slip,_ he _would have gotten blamed. The intention had been to just come closer, see if the man said ‘good thing it ain’t raining’ to his ‘cold night, isn’t it’ and if not, move on, but the man had taken him hanging around in alleyway in the evening as him being something_ else _than just smuggling alcohol out of sight of the law._

 _He_ remembered _being so_ glad _that Bucky had gotten suspicious about how he’d been paying the bulk of rent – and the medicine his mother needed now more than ever, because she was feeling_ better _with it, and missing a dose brought it all back with a_ vengeance _– and had been following him around, to see the man try to take_ liberties _with him. That he’d been there when the man had tried to force himself on him, and his struggles had just gotten him a black eye, bloody nose, and seeing stars, coming to his rescue._ )

He’d been approached the next day and told that his services as a courier were no longer needed as the man who’d tried to accost him had been found dead beaten in an alley.

(It had been rather obvious that they didn’t want to risk him squealing to the police about what he’d been doing if they stumbled across him in investigating the man’s death, and didn’t think he was actually connected or more than a tangential connection, otherwise they would have had him swimming with the fishes.)

[ _He felt cold scales skitter across his skin as they swam past in a rush, sometimes pausing to nibble on his exposed skin._ ]

Ms. Clare had taken him aside during his next shift and simply told him that his job with her was safe since she didn’t have anything more to do with those suited types than alcohol and protection, and they couldn’t force her to fire him. She told him that she didn’t blame him for killing that man for coming after him, not when more than one of her girls had been accosted by him on their way home and it had only been a matter of time before the tables got turned on him.

( _Apparently_ , Jenny had certainly made some creative threats of such, and Jackie had promised to follow them through if he interrupted their date night again – and with the girls having claimed responsibility to the man’s bosses with visceral descriptions of _why_ , the matter had been dropped.)

( _He’d never told anyone how he’d simply stood there as Bucky had beaten the man to death, his eyes gleaming cold and a snarl twisting his lips. Nor that he hadn’t even tried to stop him, huddled against the wall he’d been slammed again, just watching the sight spin in front of his eyes until the man was dead, his face punched in, and Bucky was kneeling in front of him, hesitating to touch him with bloody hands and yet still trying to see if he was_ okay _._

 _Bucky had never_ told _him about how the mafia had approached him afterwards, and tried to get him to join them._

 _And he never found out how Bucky had been tempted. That he hadn’t hesitated because he’d had a_ problem _with getting paid to break kneecaps or bust in skulls – because he’d always said_ Steve _was the_ good _one between them, not_ him _, and he’d proved it with how he’d beaten a man to death with his fists with a cold fury for_ touching _what wasn’t his – but because he’d been afraid of what_ Steve _would have thought of him doing as much, for money._ )

Neither of them ever talked about that night afterwards.

Steve never went out alone after dark afterwards though, and if he did, he was going to Ms. Clare’s, and Bucky would escort him there. For a long time, they didn’t say anything during the trip over.

( _Steve never_ did _figure out if this was because they hadn’t known_ what _to say, or if they’d had nothing_ to _say._ )

(Steve _remembered_ wanting to apologize to Bucky, because he shouldn’t have had to have that blood on his hands, not because of him, but of what he _should_ have apologized for – getting into that situation in the first place, and not telling Bucky about it in the first place, not to mention _needing_ the rescue like some _damsel_ – he was only sorry about not saying anything before not telling Bucky so he wouldn’t worry, even if it had ended up being justified.

Not that he thought Bucky would have _accepted_ any such apology. He imagined he would say something about how it was _his_ choice to _kill_ the man, and that he _better_ not take that away from him.

The guilt remained though, and never went away either.)

Eventually, haltingly, they started talking like normal again – like what had happened in that alleyway had never happened.

( _Steve_ remembered _though; he could never forget._

 _The blood on Bucky’s hands was on his hands, because he’d made his friend a killer – just as he knew Bucky had decided the blood on his hands was also on his, for bringing him into the war onto the front lines. It had just become another part of Bucky-and-Steve, Steve-and-Bucky; they were two parts of the same whole to keep the other balanced on that knife edge of morality and survival-at-all-costs._ )

Before that though, Bucky ended up working with him at Ms. Clare’s, mixing drinks and protecting the girls when some customers got too handsy while he waited for him, then walked him home.

( _Steve_ remembered _how Ms. Clare had winked at him one night in between as Bucky had bodily showed a rowdy customer three heads taller than his fourteen-year-old height the door. She’d been smirking as she said that he had a_ keeper _there, and he better not ever let him go, because there weren’t too many like him – maybe not necessarily_ kind _, but_ good-to-his _, and if he lost him, he would never find another._

 _He’d already known that though._ )

~

Even knowing that his mother was dying, it had a come as a shock to hear the _bean sidhe_ late in the winter of 1933.

He’d called for a priest for Last Rites, and then stayed at her bedside until the end, trading sweet memories and whispered declarations of love so that if she passed suddenly, she would leave this world with a smile and know that she was _loved_ – like she had always for him, every time that it had looked hopeless, and if he fell asleep, that was the last thing he would have known.

Tears hadn’t ceased to run down their cheeks once she’d had him pull one of the few possessions that she’d been sure to save no matter how tight money became from where it had been hidden in their closest, alongside his father’s uniform and her wedding photos. Her thin fingers had cradled the watch gently as he’d passed it to her, telling him of how she’d painted the face of it herself in the factory while he’d been off at war, then gifted it to him on his return, and once Joseph had passed, she’d always intended to give it to him when a bit older. She’d given it to him then, and helped him fasten it on his wrist after winding it up where it had stopped at 9:18.

(It had stopped when his father had died, at 9:18 am, on December 11, 1918 – and his mother said it was in perfect condition, but it had stopped because this had been _his father’s watch_. It had been the first watch that she’d made, the watch that she’d trained on and has used her first wages to buy, just so she could give it to her father, so it had always known it was destined for him, and him alone. His father’s watch had just _stopped_ when his father had died, because it had been _his_.

That she’d had it seen after he’d been born, and found out it was in perfect condition with no _logical_ reason why it had stopped, only to find it just _wouldn’t_ wind up. She’d smiled as she said it only wound up _now_ because it was _her_ winding it, for _him_.)

She’d held him close as he’d cried at the story, only crying louder as she’d passed on the mementos of the father he’d never got to know as she slipped Samson Wilson’s nametags with his father’s wedding ring on the chain around his neck.

( _He’d worn them both every day after, only taking them off for brief moments, mostly for missions during the war so that nothing happened to them._

 _Steve was glad that he’d taken them off before confronting Schmidt, because the water would destroy it after it became his grave. Peggy would at least keep them safe; would make sure that they were taken care of now that he was gone._ )

Everyone had always _known_ that Sarah had taught her son how to _live_ ; had taught him how to stand up for what was _right_ and never back down or run away. So, no one had really been surprised that after she’d gotten sick, that she’d clung onto life for _years_ longer than the other watch-girls, as Steve had gotten his pure, bull-headed, _stubbornness_ from _someone_.

( _Steve had never told anyone as he’d watched her die, slowly, painfully, face tight but eyes peaceful with a smile on her lips, that she’d also taught him how to_ die _. She’d taught him how to fight and claw to live, no matter the odds, but she’d also taught that when the time came, when the_ bean sidhe _shrieked and the Morrigan came on dark wings, how to die gracefully._ )

He _remembered_ as he watched her call Bucky forward from where the younger boy had hovered by the door – because Bucky had come over, refusing to let him be alone in this moment – for a few private words, that as he hoped for when he died in the near future – _knowing_ that the chances of him living to see his thirties was practically non-existent and that just him living another decade was already unlikely with how his days were numbered from the way his health _was_ – that he died as gracefully as she did.

[ _In the ice, he didn’t fight the cold – so very_ cold _– consuming him, as he dreamed of memories;_ trying _to accept his inescapable death with a smile like his mother._ ]

Sarah breathed her last moments after her talk with Bucky, a smile on her lips and love in her eyes as she looked at him, Bucky clutching his fist tight from where she’d pushed something into his palm, his eyes wide and watery.

(She took to the grave the knowledge of her bet with Bucky’s grandfather, that one day, the two would be wed in the eyes of God.

And the elder Barnes never told anyone of how he’d woken up decades later, delivering flowers to her grave, and found out that maybe it wasn’t quite _legal_ yet but men could be openly together, _sure_ that she was smirking down at him from above, with a twinkle in her eye for _yet_.)

~

 _The_ _Сол_ д _а_ т _was the one to pull together one specific memory._

 _A woman with a face like Steve’s lay dying, and she called him closer without fear, before making him promise to always be there for her son, to look out for him. There had been a firmness in her eyes, that maybe she was asking, but it was an_ order _at heart._

 _Though, for a reason he couldn’t name, he thought she said more, said something with a smile and a twinkle in her eye that said mischief and getting the last laugh, a_ familiar _shit-stirring look on her face, before she had given him a ring –_ her _ring – for a_ reason _that he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t_ remember _but it had been something_ soft _and he would have killed without orders for it, for her, for Steve._

_< <This was when The Mission was defined, and assigned. The Handler is to be protected.>>_


	8. to know change;

_As the years passed in the ice, Steve felt the cold that surrounded him –_ enveloped _him – come to_ consume _him._

 _The cold sank into his very bones, and then some. Replacing them with blocks of ice as the blood froze in his veins, with frost crystalizing on his skin and snow drifts piled up in his hair. He could_ feel _Beira recasting him with white hair and blue skin, for when the Morrigan came for him to deliver him to his new place – a new post for him to take up, because he wasn’t_ done _yet._

 _He had a_ job _to do, he could just about sense it as he lingered for the moment in this place; this Purgatory – this Limbo – this place between places, not dead but no longer quite_ alive _, between life and_ what came after _. There was too much blood on his hands for him to feel the warmth of the living again without strings, and if those puppet strings let him find_ Bucky _to bring him_ home _, he’d accept an_ eternity, _knowing that_ one day _Bucky would get him an escort off this Path._

~

After his mother died, Steve went through his life numb.

( _Even after the Serum, and his memories of Before lost the fuzziness that time brought them if the memories were still there, and left the ones After in ultra-definition that never faded, always ultra-crisp and ultra-detailed, Steve never remembered much of the weeks that came after his mother died._ )

The only thing he would _remember_ with complete clarity for those first couple of months was that Bucky hardly left him alone. Bucky was always there for him, and even when he had nothing else, he had Bucky.

He would _vaguely_ remember that he’d used most of their savings to get his mother as nice a headstone as he could afford, with a simple cross inscribed above her name, and her dates of birth and death, then buried next to his father.

(So that he could give them the promise he’d found inscribed on his father’s wedding ring: _to be together, always_.)

He _remembered_ the Barnes being there for him, reminding him to eat and taking him into their house so he wouldn’t be alone.

(And because he couldn’t afford an apartment by himself, now that his mother’s income wasn’t there.)

He would only ever _barely_ remember her wake a week after she died, where many in the neighborhood had come to O’Reilly’s speakeasy to do as one did for a death and drank to the good memories. He wasn’t sure after, but he thought he’d seen a few coppers there that came off-shift, turning a blind eye in favor of honoring a loved one – honoring a respected member of their community – in the way the Irish had been doing for generations, for what felt like time immemorial.

(He only remembered the possible-coppers because they’d raised a toast and said _she’d made Joseph wait a year shy of almost exactly fifteen years for that dance he’d promised her for when he was better, he’d be happy that she was with him now after raising hell this entire time like the firecracker she’d been from day one in the states._ )

He remembered crying weeks after her death as the city set off fireworks for New Year’s, the numbness fading away some for _grief_ at this being his first birthday without her. He _remembered_ that Bucky had held him as he sobbed then.

( _That year was the_ only _time that Bucky didn’t try to convince him that the fireworks were for him, for_ his _birthday. Every other year of their friendship – even that first – even those years of war where even one firework hardly went off – and he had his suspicions that Bucky had made_ those _happen – then even after it was decided that Captain America’s birthday was July 4 th, Bucky stuck to that _ridiculous _line._

_After that year though, he’d stopped protesting._

_For some reason, he’d_ believed _Bucky those first few years – he_ still _said it was because Bucky could convince anyone of anything if he wanted, and it_ wasn’t _just because he’d been a little gullible as a kid, Dernier – because it had made him_ special _. After that year, he’d just let it be, because it was_ Bucky _that needed to believe that lie. Even –_ especially _– back then._

 _He never did tell Bucky that he had_ understood _; that because they saw so much death, knew Death herself haunted their neighborhood like she lived there – and he never_ did _find out_ why _Bucky had at one point started to say Death was a woman – and so, they needed_ life _to mean something, needed_ their _lives to mean something._

 _If he could have said the same about Bucky, he_ would _have, but Bucky was born on an ordinary August 8 th and the year he’d _tried _to set off fireworks for him, the neighbors had complained and he had been officially banned from touching any and all matches._

 _Bucky never_ did _tell him that he really just needed the fireworks to celebrate that he had survived another year, that he had beat all the odds that with each year just got_ worse _, and had come out alive. That even from those early days, that he’d known that Steve was his heart, his moral compass, and that he already knew from that day in ’32 that prison was already a foregone conclusion, as well as that he’d earn a spot in Catholic Hell, but he didn’t know how long he could keep to the mostly-straight and narrow without him there to draw those lines, remind him of where they were._ )

As the months went on though, he was able to get past his grief. It never faded completely, sitting like a heavy stone beneath his breast that took little prodding to burn anew, but it no longer numbed him to the world.

(He wore the black, grieved without pause for the week of mourning, then kept an article of black on him for the full year and a day because it didn’t feel _right_ to put it all aside until he could go a day without thinking of his mother’s absence, without it sending him to his knees, tears prickling his eyes. Not until he could smile looking at her favorite flowers again.)

( _The numbness had returned after he’d seen Bucky Fall, only this time – time wouldn’t make it easier. He’d grieved people he’d known in the 107 th, the Howling Commando’s Ghost Company, and it didn’t get easier. He couldn’t forget, and time couldn’t fade the sharp edges of how he _remembered _, with complete clarity and detail,_ how _they’d died._

 _The grief would never stop burning, and it was fueled by that dark part of himself that had sprung up seeing Bucky strapped to a table in Azzano, until it had become an inferno that would happily see the world burn in vengeance. It had kept him going without pause until he’d had Schmit cornered, with Hydra already torn to pieces by his bare hands that he’d intended to salt and burn after seeing to the end of the Red Skull, but then that mission had gone wrong and he’d trusted Peggy to make sure Hydra could never come back as he’d let the ice smother that inferno._ )

Without the numbness, the fire to do _right_ , once embers yet still burning, went up in renewed flames – and he started to get into _fights_ again.

(Or more accurately, _picking fights again_. The bullies had gotten a reprieve, and now he was _back_ with a _vengeance_. If he was a fire that was going burn at both ends, then he was going to _burn bright as the sun_.)

Just in time for Prohibition to end.

(And he thought that Bucky was, on some level, so pleased to see him with his spunk back that he hardly protested – protested a bit late to do any good, anyway – that he didn’t stop him from celebrating in early December 1933.

Steve didn’t realize he wasn’t quite _wrong_ in his assumption, that Bucky was just relieved to see more than a shade of him was just scratching the surface of it. Because Steve would never stop grieving his mother, and he didn’t expect him to, but this was the first _real_ instance of him _living_ again.)

The first night of the country being (legally) wet again after so long of a drought, the girls at Ms. Clare’s were plying everyone with drink – the first on the house because Ms. Clare was in a good mood – while giggling and laughing. Bucky was in a good mood himself, so his protests were weak in denying them offered drinks now that it was legal again.

(Though not for them. They had about four years each, but no one paid any attention to that since they were so used to seeing them there that they quite forgot.)

Three drinks in though, it became clear that Steve was a bit of a lightweight despite the Irish being almost as well-known as the Russians for their drinking – and that Bucky was a _true_ man of Russia.

Steve woke up the next morning with very little memory of the night aside from the feeling that he’d been a bit of a giggly drunk, and _might_ have been a bit handsy, as he had scooted closer to Bucky, clinging to him, eventually draping himself over his lap.

He had no shame though of full-heartedly blaming Bucky for turning _a_ drink into _drinks_ , even with his spotty memory.

( _Bucky’s eyes had sparkled, and then he’d tossed back his drink – a shot of whiskey – like it was_ water _, and he’d_ seen _the challenge that Bucky had made, because he didn’t have any health issues that would mean he_ wouldn’t _be able to match him step for step. He remembered grinning with teeth because_ challenge accepted _and_ finally something _he_ could do too _._

_Only, he’d tried to throw back his own shot the same way as Bucky had, and he’d had to cough heartily to clear his lungs as it burned down his throat like liquid fire._

_Bucky should have_ known _he wouldn’t back out gracefully after that, even as a second shot made his head_ swim- _and his body to feel all_ floaty-)

[ _As his throat burned from the sea water, lungs screaming, he_ tried _to swim, tried to_ escape _the ice that had sealed him inside this metal casket, only to_ sink-]

( _Bucky had cut him off from the whisky, after a gesture towards the girls for what amounted to hard cider – or was it spiked cider? – from then on out._

 _He_ vaguely _remembered suddenly springing forward after a bit, with a laugh that made_ him _think of pixies about to make mischief, before starting to_ strip _on the table like he’d seen the girls do a thousand times. What he_ really _remembered was Bucky’s eyes going wide, perhaps a little_ darker _or maybe a little_ golden _, before his face had contorted in some mix of the familiar_ oh-my-god-Steve-no _and something_ new _, before lunging at him as he’d shouted too loud, “STEVE!”_

 _He_ remembered _thinking Bucky wanted to play along, twisting playfully away to prance across the tabletops like a demented squirrel on caffeine, bouncing from place to place and making Bucky chase him, “Come_ on _, Buck!”_ )

He did remember Bucky pinning him down as he’d giggled – no thanks to the girls because they’d been cackling because of him dancing half-naked, and he _would_ remember that because the girls didn’t let him forget, giggling about it for _days_ after – before Bucky had grumbled to himself and lit a cigarette that one of the girls, Martha, had gotten him on.

( _He_ remembered _whining a little from where Bucky had him squished into his left side, half on his lap with an arm around his waist, at the fact that Bucky_ could _smoke and he_ couldn’t _with his asthma, before he got a face full of smoke. He_ remembered _that after he’d coughed a little, he’d giggled and then smacked Bucky on the thighs, and saying, “Again, again!”_

 _He_ didn’t _remember_ how _he went from_ that _, to being pinned across Bucky’s lap, but he_ wanted _to remember and_ couldn’t.)

(Even if he didn’t remember right away about the later part of the night, Bucky never forgot, because from December 1933 on, whenever Bucky smoked, he always blew smoke in his face with a smirk, as if to say, _there, happy now, you punk?_ )

His last memory of the night was vaguely remembering Ms. Clare coming into the room, and staring at the chaos that had made the room into a disaster room, before sighing.

( _He_ remembered _her pointing a finger at the girls while gesturing at him and saying, “Have you looked at him? Any_ one _of you weigh more than he does, by a significant margin,_ of course _, he’s going to be a lightweight no matter if his mother could drink like a fish. I expect this to be cleaned up before the hour is up.”_

 _He_ remembered _her waving Bucky off when he’d made a move to assist, because he’d made half of the mess chasing Steve down._ )

He did _not_ remember how Bucky had scooped him up and threw him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes when they went home, or how as they’d left that _he’d_ been singing an off-tone rendition of the strip polka, smacking Bucky’s ass for a beat.

( _He was_ mortified _about that when he_ did _remember, and he’d suddenly_ understood _why Bucky had never let him drink more than a sip again after this, not until he’d gotten the serum and then he’d been unable to get drunk._

_Not that Bucky hadn’t played along with him sometimes, like he was drunk and were re-enacting that night in 1933 again._

_He_ remembered _Peggy’s surprise of him drinking the bar dry after Bucky’s Fall without keeling over dead himself from alcohol poisoning, and him giving up that he could taste the alcohol but that it didn’t do anything for him._ )

Bucky made sure to tell him in _excruciating_ detail and volume the next morning about the parts he hadn’t remembered – or most of them, Steve _knew_ there were a few pieces missing then, but he wasn’t going to bring them up if Bucky wasn’t. Then he’d returned the session of ass bongos with _interest_ – while they were the only ones in the house, of course. Neither of them were so _stupid_ as to do so while Winifred or the girls were there, even when hungover, because they’d _regret_ it _so much._

(They hadn’t forgotten the _one_ time George had come home tipsy and squeezed her ass in front of them, and after she’d squealed in surprise, how she’d _loudly_ started reciting the Torah, beginning to end, again and _again_ , in the original Yiddish until her husband had been curled up on the floor, asking her to be a bit quieter and he didn’t get drunk for a week.

She’d eyed them anyway the next day, and promised they would get a repeat of that if she ever caught them drunk in her house.)

( _They never did talk about how they were both fairly certain that they’d heard Bucky’s grandfather snicker afterwards about the night, considering that he’d hummed along with Bucky singing strip polka._

Some _things just never needed to be talked about, for the sake of their remaining diginity._ )

~

With the end of Prohibition, Ms. Clare’s started to bring in a lot more money than before now that they could advertise openly again – even if only most of the offered services were legal, and the others were still word-of-mouth only.

It meant that as long as he was careful about his spending, there was enough money coming in for Steve to find his own apartment and move out of the Barnes’ again by the _real_ start of spring, with winter officially and completely behind them.

(What it _wasn’t_ , was enough for him to pay rent if he had to spend as much as he did after catching his start-of-spring cold, let alone his never-ending-winter-cold.)

And since he mostly hung around Ms. Clare’s for the company – he probably only _had_ to be there once a week, to discuss if Ms. Clare wanted something new – and because Bucky wouldn’t necessarily come over to help out without him there, claiming it was because he was over there _anyway_ , it meant he _could_ look for another job without conflict. The problem was that most of the other jobs always looking for people, were heavy-lifting, with long hours, in places that his asthma and/or his allergies hated. And the others were the railroad or on ships, both of which would expect him to travel with.

Then the circus came to town for a couple of weeks; the first _real_ sign that the economy was getting _better_.

~

 _The_ _Сол_ д _а_ т _was_ fascinated _with one particular memory._

 _They were in a bar, surrounded by people they_ knew _– even if he couldn’t remember their names or faces, they were_ friendly _, and wasn’t_ that _a different concept – and they were drinking._

 _Or_ he _was drinking, and Steve had one drink, then started coughing from the burn with a flush high on his cheeks, then starting to wobble, before starting to strip and bouncing like a squirrel on crack. They’d tried to catch him, immobilize him, but it was surprisingly difficult, like a greased ferret._

 _The_ _Сол_ д _а_ т _watched that memory again and again, memorizing the way Steve could hardly be caught with his small size and surprising flexibility, until they didn’t need to_ remember _how he’d done it, only that the body could mimic it._

 _Then they taught it to a bunch of little girls, a secret lesson to_ escape _if an attack failed._


	9. [Interlude] How Steve met Dum-Dum

Steve was clutching a ragged, half-faded half-smeared flyer as he rode the train out past Cooney Island, thinking that this was his chance to earn a little extra coin. Doing the flyers for Ms. Clare was steady pay, and it _was_ enough to fund an apartment, but _not_ fund an apartment and then various medical expenses when he inevitably got sick. This could let him stash a little bit of money away for those times – probably for the next round of being sick, when his springtime allergies kicked in with all the flowers coming into bloom.

If he was turned down though, the only thing he had wasted would be a little time since he hadn’t paid the pennies for the train fare this time.

(He usually did, but sometimes when money was a little tight, he wouldn’t – and his finances were still recovering from half-a-month’s rent down the drain for medicine for his start-of-spring cold, and he _would_ be moving out of the Barnes’ at the end of the month.)

He _hoped_ that he wasn’t turned down though, even if there was always the chance that they _preferred_ their old flyers.

( _Bucky had always been so_ firm _in his belief, unshaken in it to the very end, that he would_ never _get turned down for an art gig, always saying, “You’re a fucking amazing artist, Stevie, best I’ve ever seen, and one day, the whole_ world _will be trying to get a Steve Rogers original.”_

_His grin had been the-cat-that-caught-the-canary as he’d laughed, “And I’ll flaunt how I have sketchbooks worth of art of me by you.”_

_Peggy had happened to hear that – surely by Bucky’s design – and she’d smirked the-cat-that-got-the-cream, “Then I expect to be able to showcase a gallery of us, Sergeant Barnes, by the time the war ends, for us to flaunt to Stark.”_ )

At the sight of the big tents up close, he paused for just a moment before steeling his spine and marching forward with his chin held high.

After all, nothing would come from being timid.

(Even if his spine was crooked and he only came up to _so_ high, he would _not_ come slinking in half-afraid of being denied and ashamed for needing this job, because he made _his_ money by drawing when all the other men worked hard, physically demanding jobs and he _couldn’t_.)

Just as he was pulling back the tent flap, it was thrown open and a _big_ man – he would _dwarf_ the elder Barnes, and Bucky’s grandfather was _not_ a small man – stepped out and nearly ran him over in the process, “Fuckin’ blighter, I’m a _strongman_ , not a-”

Steve was knocked down with an _oomph_ , and heard the man say loudly to himself, “What the fuck is a kid doing here as we’re setting up?” – before he raised one hairy eyebrow up at him from beneath the rim of his bowler hat, flapping one _large_ hand at him in a universal gesture to scram – “Come back in the evening, kid, we’ll be ready for a show then.”

His brows knitted at being called _kid_ – he was _fifteen, excuse you_ – “I’m not a _kid!_ ”

He was darkly pleased at the surprise that flickered across the bigger man’s face at his voice, finally done cracking and settled deep, before he picked himself off the ground with the ease of someone who’d been knocked down a thousand times and instinctively fell the best way to not _hurt_.

The man crossed his arms over his large chest, _towering_ over him in his striped red-and-white leotard that disappeared into brown trousers that _almost_ ruined his ability to intimidate, if he just wasn’t so _big_ , “It don’t matter if you’re a kid or not, _kid_. The show’s not until tonight. Go away.”

Steve jutted his chin out and held up the flyer, showing how beneath how it had faded away under a late spring rain and summer son before he’d picked it up, and tried to brush away the dirt and grime from its crumpled edges, that it had not been a very good image of the circus in the first place, “I came to offer my skills as an artist. _This_ flyer was a fucking eyesore even before the weather got to it.”

(The man looked down at him, at his skinny frame and how he was more skin-and-bones than anything if not for his _eyes_ , and was reminded of the runt tiger cub his sweetheart was working on training, when it was _trying_ to be particularly fierce but really just looked like an overgrown fluff ball before he picked it up by its scruff.

It would be how he’d describe meeting Steve Rogers to anyone who asked, for decades, even after meeting Captain America.)

The strongman laughed, “I like your guts, kid!” – then held out a hand for Steve to shake in proper greeting – “It’s good that you ain’t a nigger or yellow though, we might have a problem here with that kind of attitude.”

Steve narrowed his eyes at him – and the older man had just a moment to think _wow, cub’s got_ claws – before Steve gripped his hand tight, and _pulled_ him forward hard enough that while he wasn’t knocked off his feet, it did leave him a bit off-balance to Steve raising a knee right into his crotch.

The strongman _dropped_ , curling up at his feet with his big hands cupping his aching Johnson from Steve’s bony knees, his breath not quite knocked out of him.

“I don’t like your racist attitude. And the name’s not _kid_ , it’s _Steve Rogers_ , jackass. Who do I fucking need to talk to make you some damn flyers?”

From where he was on the ground, the other man chuckled weakly as he sat up, eyeing Steve’s bony elbows and knees warily from where he was practically eye-level with a scrawny chest, “Irish spitfire, aren’t you? Get into a lot of fights with that noble attitude, no doubt.” He took Steve’s offered hand with a stronger chuckle – because here was a _maybe_ 90-pounds-soaking-wet barely-five-foot-tall man trying to help him, a 200+ pound over-six-foot-tall man, to his feet – before pulling him down closer to his level so they were face to face, “Hanging out with you must be _interesting’_ , I’m sure. I’m the strongman here, Timothy Dugan, but everyone calls me Dum-Dum, even my lady.”

Steve met his gaze square-on, and Dugan just laughed as he led the way inside the big tent, “Let me show you to the ringmaster.”


	10. to live is to find there are two constants in life -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #Kinks  
> #Implied Sexual Predator (who DIES soon after)

While the circus was in town, he earned a bit of money sketching for them, but the job didn’t last long before they were packing up and moving on to their next location.

But like Ms. Clare’s, he didn’t hang around nearly every day just to sketch.

Skinny and asthmatic, he may have been, but still learned a few things from some of the performers.

Bucky had long ago taught him the _proper_ way to make a fist if he was determined to fight, and where to hit the softest spots hardest to make his opponent _hurt._ And boxing was in his Irish blood, so he wasn’t exactly _defenseless_ when tensions ran too high in the neighborhood and block parties broke out and it was a free-for-fall fight amongst teenagers.

It was the strongman, the acrobats and animal tamers, that taught him to _use_ his size to his advantage in a way that Bucky just couldn’t being so much bigger than him, and to take down people as big as the strongman.

( _The first time that he’d used those circus-taught tricks against Bucky when Bucky got nervous because Daniel down way was looking for a fight from him, and demanded a spar to see him hold his own in case he wasn’t there to back him up from the start, and laid him out flat – Bucky had_ smiled _._

 _Bucky had laughed and looked so damn proud even laying on his back on cobblestone because he had gotten under his guard, kicked out his knee, then flipped him over his shoulder, before he was ruffling his hair with a smile that hadn’t dimmed for who else saw it._ )

He learned a bit of knife-work from some of the other performers; how to conceal a knife on his person, how to properly hold it, how to flick a switchblade open without catching his fingers in the process, how to use it, and how to dodge one. He wasn’t a master with it, didn’t use it in his fights because as long as his opponent fought with his fists, so did he, but he carried it because it was a reassurance.

But he wasn’t so naïve to believe that all of his fights would be with fists, would end with fists, and so he carried it for when someone crossed a line, pulled out a weapon, grabbed a brick, so that he would _not_ be empty-handed.

(If someone else tried to take liberties with him, as much as he wanted to believe Bucky would _always_ be there to rescue him, one day he might not, and the knife made him feel safe. A little extra protection than his fists alone could give him.)

( _He never did tell Bucky about learning to fight with a knife at the circus, but it was Bucky that found him one, and gave it to him one day apropos of nothing, slipping it into his pocket and refusing to take the pretty little steel thing back – because it_ wasn’t _cheaply made – unless he could slip it back into that overgrown cat’s pocket._ )

Not until after one of the knife-throwers showed him how to tell someone had a knife on them, did he see that Bucky had his own switchblade.

(He didn’t ask where he got it, or learned to fight with it.)

( _Bucky never told him that he’d stolen it off a mafia man that had called Steve a fairy, and carried it for the day that his father had too much to drink trying to drown out what he’d seen in his war_. _Not until the day George did, pulling out a gun and waving it in their faces until his father had tackled him down before he could make a move, baring fang and flashing red eyes until George had dropped the weapon_.)

After the circus left, Bucky told his parents that he was moving in with Steve without telling Steve first, during the Sunday dinner before he did.

No one had blinked – no one had _protested_ – and the dinner conversation had continued without a blip, like the statement was a foregone conclusion just being aired, before Steve could even open his mouth and argue on _principal_.

( _He_ remembered _how Bucky’s eyes had flashed triumphantly at that, a hint of gold glittering in dark depths, his smirk saying_ that’s settled then.)

So, Bucky had moved in with Steve into the cupboard-sized apartment not far from the Navy docks in a neighborhood that while being undeniably _dirt cheap_ , was also known for being a queer neighborhood.

They were harassed a couple of times those first weeks, as Bucky dropped out of school and started working at the docks and Steve continued at Ms. Clare’s, but the police stopped after a bit.

Because _everyone_ in the neighborhood thought Steve was a _shitty_ liar, his few lies coming out stumbling and awkwardly phrased, and that just _didn’t_ normally. Like he came clean about any candy he nicked, and tried to pay for it belatedly when the guilt became too much. It meant when he _said_ that they were living there because “Sorry officer, but I’m poorer than poor, and sick a lot to boot, so I don’t have the money to afford anywhere else”; they _believed_ him.

( _Bucky had_ loved _to call bullshit on the pretty words that had left his mouth, what other people would straight-up call_ lies _and he said it wasn’t_ lying _, it was just omitting certain pieces of information for what they wanted to hear._

 _Steve had been half-convinced until the day he’d flown the plane into the water that it had been Bucky’s favorite thing to do when not being an asshole, particularly since he’d been present for 95% of the things that left his mouth and 80% of the things he did, so he_ knew _what he wasn’t saying. Like when he_ said _“no ma’am, we did not run past here with me wearing my ma’s brassier – and just my ma’s brassier – in the middle of the night”, it actually_ meant _“ma’am, we giggled as we skipped, completely drunk so perhaps_ staggered _would be a better word, past here at three in the mornin’ wearing Mrs. Barnes’ brassier, and what were_ you _doing up around then”._

 _Steve was sure that Bucky_ preened _each time that he was such a little shit and got away with it, despite the other party_ sometimes having been there for the accused action _, sometimes wiping a fake tear from his eye at the student having suppressed the master._

 _He had always just rolled his eyes, because he_ said _he wasn’t_ lying _– which was a_ sin _, Bucky, he wasn’t going to Hell for something so stupid_ _– and just taking the piss by simply denying things if they weren’t phrased right._ )

They’d already believed him when they’d come to Ms. Clare’s and asked if he wasn’t a little _young_ to be there, and he’d cheekily said no, that it was _legal_ for him to be there, since he wasn’t drinking.

(Bucky had nearly choked on his laughter once they’d gone, when he’d looked at his friend and finished, “Since I’m not drinking _now_ – nor behind the bar serving the drinks, _Bucky_.”

Considering that Bucky was _younger_ than him, and yet _wasn’t_ the one asked if he was of age to be handling alcohol, when _neither_ of them were.)

~

For all that they were always scrambling for money, at how more often than not, they at or got food from Winifred, Steve thought some of his happiest memories came from living with Bucky, and _just_ Bucky.

Not that much really changed from before they did.

He was still drawing Bucky every spare moment he had, still never showing him and hiding the drawings that had as the years had gone on, gotten considerably _less_ innocent, even if they weren’t all like that. Some of them _perhaps_ a bit _racy_ ; when Bucky was sleep-rumbled with his clothes all askew after sitting down and just falling asleep then and there, when he was sweating and stripping off his shirt on the dock, laughing when he saw his audience before turning it into a bit of a _show_ , when he walked around their apartment nude at night in the hotter months.

Jackie had heard him grumbling at Ms. Clare’s that working there combined with teenage hormones was taking innocent pictures and making them pin-ups without his permission, and had burst out laughing, tears in her eyes.

She’d laughed at him for a solid week, unable to help herself when she saw him looking at Bucky, or drawing Bucky, making his default expression for a while a pout, because it was a _real problem, Jackie_.

She’d only laughed harder when Bucky had come in one day, all scowling and almost ready to start a fight to find out why he’d been pouting without explaining; unable to speak past the breathy laughs. Then when Bucky had been herded out there with a suspicious look her way – Jackie was too smart in his eyes, and her gaze had always been knowing when she’d look at him, and she’d just smirked at Steve when he’d asked why she looked at Bucky like that – she’d apparently said something to the other girls, and they’d been escorted out by feminine giggling, giggling that had lasted for a solid month afterword.

( _Jenny had leered at him as she’d come out of_ nowhere _, draping over his back and plucking his sketchbook from his hands before he could hide it in mortification, pouting as she said it was unfair that Bucky looked better on the pole than she did in his art, wearing Martha’s lacy thong better than the girl herself._

 _He’d run away when she’d followed that up with, “It’s because you want this, isn’t it?” Then made an obscene gesture with her fingers that had made his fair skin burn._ )

Being sixteen by that point, things should have gotten a bit _awkward_ being two teenage boys in a small space.

(Steve _remembered_ making a point to _not_ question why it didn’t get awkward.

Some days Bucky left the toilet seat up, other days he’d spend an hour shaving his face clean and leave the hair in the sink. Some days his socks got kicked off under the kitchen table, and other days, he came in from a shift at the docks and started stripping his sweaty clothes off then and there once the door was closed behind him to go right into the shower with no shame for how Steve was _right there_.)

It really hadn’t changed much from before they’d moved in together.

There had always been a lack of personal space – or very little concept of what personal space _was_ between them when not outside their homes – and it translated over to all parts of their lives easily when there were no one looking on.

It began with how there had been no hesitation to sleep in the same bed, even if they had before and it was _because_ there wasn’t room for two beds even pushed together. Even prickly as he was, Steve hadn’t protested (much) about being manhandled into bed each night to play the Little Spoon to Bucky’s Big Spoon, pulled tight again to the other boy’s broadening chest.

It expanded on how Bucky, despite being four, almost five, months younger with his birthday in early August, had started to have _those_ types of dreams first in early 1934, not long before he’d unilaterally decided he was moving in with Steve, and it hadn’t changed _much_ about their mornings.

Not after with how both of their mothers, being abortionists and a bit more liberal thinking than most, once Steve’s voice had started to crack, had given them _very_ thorough explanations about sex and how it _wasn’t_ a sin to have desires. They were equally awkward with themselves as with each other, or at least until Bucky proceeded to treat it all as _normal_ and didn’t blink twice at waking up to his morning wood pressed against his buddy’s back.

(It had been unstated but _very thoroughly there_ that if either of them had ever found out they’d gotten a girl pregnant from not being safe – particularly after they’d _explained in much detail_ that if they weren’t prepared for the possibility, their dicks shouldn’t go anywhere near a woman’s sex unprotected – and then didn’t promptly claim _responsibility_ , then they wouldn’t have to _worry_ about the girl’s father escorting one of them to church to get married – or _George_ doing so – _they’d_ make sure they did if the girl wanted to marry them and have the kid, or they’d find out what it was like to not be able to get it up for a _very_ long time.

This following after she’d washed his small pants three days in a row, then refused to keep doing his laundry and Bucky was left to take care of it with very little shame; completely unbothered by going commando as long as his sisters weren’t there when he lost his belt and flashed his pale ass at whoever was behind him while squatting.)

Particularly since, Winifred had made sure that all four of her children – and Steve; finishing what Sarah had started – could take care of a home, and so neither blinked twice washing the other’s clothes as the other bitched about it taking too long for a pair of small pants to get clean enough to wear.

Bucky would just pull him close, breathing into his hair before letting him loose to get ready as he laid there and took care of it in their bed, and Steve got _used_ to coming back to see Bucky wiping up his mess with one of their shirts and throwing it into the laundry to do that morning.

Then Bucky started going on _dates_ with dames after turning sixteen, sometimes with the same girl, usually not, and always coming back to tell Steve all about them.

Steve thought that Bucky got so into the habit of telling him everything that happened on a date – and he didn’t much know how _that_ had happened – that he’d didn’t think twice about telling him about the kisses he gave. Telling him about how they were both dressed to the nines, went dancing, gave pecking little kisses as they separated for the night. Telling him about they necked in movie theaters, and how much he preferred talkies over their preferred silent because then no one knew they weren’t paying any attention to the movie. Telling him about how sometimes they didn’t much go anywhere at all, when the dames had access to cars and they parked out by the river to get handsy.

Steve rather thought Bucky liked the cars more than the girls, considering how often he got side-tracked waxing poetic about the vehicle.

( _“The car goes into third gear, Stevie! It’s something else when you feel the wind rushing past your face as you push the car to go_ faster _.”_

_“Dot’s dad has a Ford Model T, Steve! Boxy, sharp, and I think I’m in love.”_

_“Did we have to ram Hydra with the Jeep, Steve, did we? Martin hadn’t done anything to you, Steve, and you totaled him completely. We can’t even scrap him for parts since he went down that ravine.”_

_“You threw Betty-stein at a tank?! Steve, why?? There were other plans that could have worked just as well – could have worked_ better _! I pieced her together from Janet, Max, Mark, and that wonderful German piece we stole on our way out of Hydra, Abraham, and- you just- A tank?! Do I have grey hair Steve, you’re giving me grey hair.”_ )

As they got older, Bucky got bolder as he described what happened on his dates, not censoring himself as he described the girl’s shape, her feel, her sounds, narrated what he’d done, said.

( _Belatedly,_ very _belatedly, Steve realized as he’d listened to Bucky narrate eating a girl out in a movie theater that Bucky probably would have left it at just saying he’d had a date if he’d stopped him back then, but he’d not, so he got to listen to Bucky giving the play-by-play like he was there with them._ )

The thing was that Bucky liked to _talk_ , and talk and talk. He was good at listening and hearing what was being said – and not said – like a pro, but he liked to _talk_. He could charm anyone with his words, and say absolutely nothing at all while talking for an hour.

With the _talking_ , the _narrating_ , Bucky also liked to be _explicit_ , and left no details out.

(With them growing up in Brooklyn, cursing was their language, their native tongue. As Steve’s mother had taught him, cursing was nothing to be _ashamed_ of; he just had to take in situation and audience.

You didn’t curse talking to your parents, or priests, and not in polite company, except perhaps when they did so first, and never in church. And try not to in front of children not your own.

Bucky had taken to the rule like a fish in water, cursing the sky blue and capable of making sailors blush, of making them _embarrassed_ by seventeen.)

He also had no _shame_ , because going nude in the heat was just the tip of the iceberg. When the urge struck, Bucky wouldn’t hold back and indulge himself then and there, stroking himself to completion.

( _It_ still _made him blush to think of all the places that he would turn to look at Bucky, and find him with a hand down his pants stroking himself off with little regard of where they were or who was around them._

 _Steve was fairly certain that Bucky just didn’t_ care _if anyone caught him as long as it wasn’t his mother or sisters._ )

(He _vividly_ would remember well into old age the time that after Bucky had put a stop to another of his fights, that he’d just started stroking himself there in the alley, and this dame had come around the corner. Bucky had just smirked, shameless, as he’d covered the bulge in his pants with his hat, and said if she wanted a _show_ , she was welcome to stay and watch.)

Those things – the talking, the narrating, all explicit, the nudity and shamelessness – all carried over to their apartment, more and more so as Bucky discovered he _liked_ doing those things and Steve didn’t say a word otherwise.

( _Give Bucky an inch, and he’d take a mile before you’d blinked, then just smirk as you realized that he’d taken over._

 _Dernier had laughingly told him on the walk away from Azzano that the Sergeant was a devil with a man-shape, kicked out of Hell before he could lead a coup d’état to take the throne, and Steve had clapped him on the back and said not-quite-faux-seriously that he understood Bucky_ well _if he’d figured that out, before Bucky had started yelling at him to not start bullshitting his men without him there to straighten them out._ )

At some point, Bucky started bring the dame home when it was late and he was sitting in the warm air on the fire escape drawing, and would narrate the whole thing just loud enough that he could hear him.

(And none of them ever asked if he lived here alone, then never seemed to notice there were two people’s stuff in the apartment despite just one bed because it was too small for another bed. Bucky didn’t say anything and Steve stayed out of sight and did his best to give them privacy as his cheeks flushed from Bucky’s narration.)

Steve, on the other hand, was a bit of a late bloomer.

(His mother would say that it was probably in part due to his whole host of medical problems, before commenting that people were different. Some people never got aroused, and others only with certain people. She’d told him about her aunt that had never been interested in marriage, sex, or love, just happily taking care of children and spending time with friends.)

He enjoyed the dreams he had when he did, but sex wasn’t something that concerned near as much as it did Bucky. Probably in part due to the actual fact that doing _anything_ was a one-in-three chance of causing him an asthma attack, or cause his hear to _actually_ skip a beat, and even if the spirit was _willing_ , the _body_ was _not_.

Still, he was a teenage boy in love with his best friend, and his best friend lived with him, often walking around in the nude and _narrating his sexual exploits in explicit detail_ – the spirit was willing, that was never in question.

When he tried on his good days, Bucky had at first _helped_ – said it was so he knew what to do, and he knew the _best_ way to do this. Then he’d _watched_ – and said that it would do for him to keel over because he couldn’t breathe and was ashamed to be seen.

And he _talked_ , because he was _Bucky_ , and Bucky _couldn’t stop talking_. Particularly when it had to do with _sex_.

( _Very belatedly, he’d started to catch on after the serum that maybe Bucky had always seemed so interested in sex was because he’d always been_ right there _, and yet untouchable. That while sodomy was just illegal, loving another man was condemned on another ten levels. That even after having sex wouldn’t likely kill him as it would have before the serum, Bucky hadn’t wanted to give anyone a reason to put them beneath another scientist’s knife considering some of the camps they freed on their way to Hydra bases were full of people deemed_ lesser _and cut apart trying to_ prove _it, then_ fix _them._ )

Steve had barely acknowledged it to _himself_ , but more than once, it had just been Bucky’s voice that had done it for him; Bucky saying all these _filthy_ things in this low voice. He barely acknowledged it and _never_ told Bucky that it wasn’t because he was uncomfortable with _him_ watching – it was okay _because_ it was _him_ – that his squirming had more to do with his Catholic Guilt, and the fact it was _Bucky_ that did it for him.

( _Bucky, despite all his talk, never told Steve that he’d enjoyed watching_ him _more than most of what he’d did with dames, the exception being when he went down on them. That he thought meant he’d just_ liked _to make people make noise, because he_ loved _when Steve’s breathes would hitch just slightly and he would moan so filthily._ )

And maybe Steve _always_ knew that this wasn’t the behavior of just two best friends, but they didn’t talk about it.

( _He’d been afraid to ask, to tell, in case he was_ wrong _, because he’d thought he could survive a lifetime existing like this and never thought it would be him that would have to live with the regret of unspoken things._ )

~

 _He didn’t know how long it had_ been _truly, since they’d become the_ _Сол_ д _а_ т.

 _He_ knew _it had been more time than he was aware of, because whenever he woke, he couldn’t tell if it had been an hour or a year, and frozen as he was,_ he _didn’t change even as the world around him did, but without a Before, it was hard to place an After. He_ knew _it had been a_ while _though, from the new memories that had slipped beyond the blue wall in his head, and he_ remembered.

 _He_ remembered _the scientist that had taken his arm and put the new one on. He_ remembered _trying to kill him, and the torture that had followed trying to break him. He_ remembered _when they’d built the Chair and fighting to not go to it before he’d known no more._

 _He_ remembered _waking up one day and there being different scientists, markedly different than the ones he knew and forgot. He_ remembered _realizing this was a different outfit from the one that had tried to make him into ‘the Fist of Hydra’ – and they were the ones to_ succeed _, but not for ‘Hydra’._

 _They were the ones to call him the_ _Сол_ д _а_ т _– simply, the Soldier._

 _They took the name because he had no other for them,_ remembering _it like he remembered Steve, somewhere beyond conscious knowledge, even when his memories were_ taken _again and again._

 _Only, unlike Hydra, these ones – this Red Room – did not want him to forget_ everything _. It was counterproductive to retrain him when too much was taken away, according to the_ _Сол_ д _а_ т _. And they got better at it with a vested interest; to specifically target specific types of memories now that (supposedly) all the unwanted ones were gone. They made the body into a weapon that remembered what it had been taught even if the conscious knowledge was taken, and figured out to only remove the recent memories of missions and still keep their training in how to blend in with the changing times without sticking out, if he couldn’t go in somewhere completely unnoticed._

 _But the_ _Сол_ д _а_ т _did not forget like they thought. The_ _Сол_ д _а_ т _had a_ vested _interest in finding and acquiring all the information that Hydra had taken from him, that the Red Room wanted to keep from him, because_ that _was where the key to finding Steve was. Amongst all the information he took in, there were inconsequential-looking details that would tell him what had happened to Steve since he’d been taken away from their Handler, and where he needed to go to return to his Handler’s side._

 _From that drive, they_ remembered _every mission, and_ remembered _all the training and torture they were put through in the name of being a better tool for their agendas. When they first woke, the body only_ remembered _what it had been_ allowed _to, did only what it was told as the_ _Сол_ д _а_ т _settled back into control, but the longer they were left awake, the more they_ remembered _._

 _They_ knew _which it wanted dead by garroting, wanted to strangle with their own intestines, wanted to impale, wanted to punch their faces in. They_ knew _which of those had done what to him, and what they were supposed to do in their organizations and how to seamlessly take control there without anyone the wiser if he could just_ slip _their leash. They_ knew _the places they’d been, how to get there without detection, knew where everything they’d need to wipe those places out inside and then disappear without a trace. They_ knew _why it was those ones, those things, those places that he_ couldn’t _forget entirely no matter how many times the memories were taken._

 _The_ _Сол_ д _а_ т _was angry; even beneath their flat tone and rigid discipline, there was anger that simmered and burned in hidden corners just waiting for the first whisper of fresh air to_ burn _._

 _The_ _Сол_ д _а_ т _planned for when they had the information it wanted most, for when they took their vengeance, for when they would return to the Handler. Most especially for the day when they would serve the Handler again, because the_ Handler _didn’t risk their life unnecessarily, didn’t treat them as disposable and replaceable, would_ better _wield them as the precision instrument they were than these ham-fisted fools, and would take their tactical suggestions and allow them to be_ efficient _without fearing they were planning mutiny because the Handler_ trusted _them._

 _The_ _Сол_ д _а_ т craved _that trust with a hunger that grew with each minute, day, year they stayed with the Red Room._

 _The_ _Сол_ д _а_ т wanted _the Handler that would listen to his suggestions, and would incorporate them even when small, and when big, would allow them to act as the sword to their shield, and take on armies with ease._

 _So the_ _Сол_ д _а_ т _made plans, leading to_ the _Plan._

~

Once they’d moved out, Steve didn’t go to Confessions as much anymore, not because he didn’t believe any more, but because his mother’s priest had been retired.

( _He_ remembered _it had been a bit of a scandal, replaced because his part in removing women and children from unsafe households had been found out and the church hadn’t wanted to say such a thing was outright_ acceptable)

He still went though because the new priest had been one his mother had told him to be leery of, _told_ him to always keep an eye on when the man was near children, because the way he looked at them wasn’t _right_ but she hadn’t been able to _prove_ anything without a sympathetic ear. Steve knew if he just _said_ something to Bucky, his friend would help find a way to make sure the man _never_ laid a hand on a child.

(He didn’t, because he wasn’t _judge, jury, and executioner_ , and Bucky would have no qualms about making the man _disappear_ even without more than a _feeling_.

 _Particularly_ if he said even a _word_ that the man looked at his younger sisters with anything but complete innocence.)

Even after one of the younger boys on their new street flinched during church after being _looked_ at by that priest, shame and guilt and fear flashing across his face.

(Because then that boy’s pain was _his fault_ and _something that he needed to absolve himself_ , and it had been _easy_ to go to him while Bucky was working on the dock, and put his knife skills to use on him. The boy’s father had found him standing over the priest’s body with a bloody knife, angry and with a bat and intending to avenge his son’s pain, and they’d not exchanged a word getting the body into the bay.)

Bucky on the other hand, hardly went at all to church without his mother bringing him along.

( _Bucky had later told him he hadn’t felt the least bit guilty about not going, because even before, he’d been, at_ best _, only telling half of his ‘sins’, because it was hard to feel guilty about things that he didn’t think were_ sins _in the first place._

 _Sitting in a bombed church in France, he’d later tell him that he’d only went to church when Steve dragged him there, because otherwise, the judgement from everyone else without Sarah to remind them of tolerance wasn’t something he was going to inflict on himself for nothing._ )

Steve, his faith shaken because the _institution_ had _punished_ a _good_ man, and _rewarded_ a _bad_ man, for nothing more than _politics_ , only kept going as they earned the right to vote to pray for Bucky’s soul. To pray for when after he was dead and buried, and his soul found wanting because a _good_ man did not _lust_ after his male best friend, did not condone _murder_ of men no matter their evil deeds, did not _lie_ and _steal_ for their own benefit, that even if he was cast down, that He forgive Bucky for his doubting so the younger man could join his mother in Heaven.

~

 _They had been sent out to Cuba, and the_ Солдат _had been less than pleased to be there as summer had risen, as they were far too used to the cold of Russia and her territories in Europe. They’d been even less happy over how the country’s new leader had showed them around like they were his to command._

 _The_ Солдат _had expected their handler to cut off this behavior, but the man not only allowed, but eagerly loaned him out for this faux-handler to use to kill dissenters as their handler worked out details regarding Cuba’s conversion to communism. Only the fact that the eldest and current-best of their Spiderlings had come along for experience, had stopped a couple of assassination attempts on Cuba’s leader as well during their stay._

_The initiative allowed her to be ingratiated her into the new regime, and the Cubans never seemed to realize how their Cellar Spider began to weave her webs around them, anchoring herself into their lives and quickly becoming irreplaceable._

_The_ Солдат _had been proud of Ana even as the memory of the Mission had been taken from them, and then they’d forgotten the young girl._


	11. then realize they come hand in hand.

Steve knew he was (a bit unnecessarily) proud; it was why even as Bucky could and _did_ earn more than he could drawing, even with the steady income thanks to Ms. Clare, more than enough to pay the bulk of rent and take out his dates, he was determined to pay equal share for the apartment.

So, whenever opportunities came up like the circus, where he could illustrate for advertisement, he jumped on it. His work for the circus got him in the door to illustrate posters and lobby cards for the local theater, the one that Bucky usually snuck him into to see the ones on delayed run.

He loved the silent films, with them being in black-and-white, he knew that his _issues_ with colors weren’t a problem when he did illustrations for them, and that he wasn’t missing anything because he couldn’t hear half of the dialogue. They were getting phased out for talkies though, and with them came requests to start doing illustrations in full color regardless if the movie was or not because _soon,_ they’d have color too. The first of them would be coming out soon.

(After he’d done a woman with green hair and brown eyes, dressed in blue, Bucky had labeled his color pencils for him – because while chalk would be cheaper to work on his gradient shading with, they were off-limits thanks to his asthma, and paints were too expensive for him – so that he could ‘apply his artistic vision’ to the black-and-whites as requested.)

With color movies though, it would only get harder for him to illustrate because he wouldn’t be able to keep up with him having to do a trial piece, taking note of which colors he’d used where, let Bucky see it so there wasn’t some glaringly obvious color discrepancy, and then re-do it for a final product, for however many was wanted.

(And Bucky sometimes didn’t notice right away because he didn’t see the difference in comparing shades like crimson and maroon; to him both were just _red_ because of his superior night vision.

They’d actually had an argument when Bucky hadn’t realized he’d mislabeled turquoise and teal, and thus he’d made fifteen posters with something just a little _off_ that had nearly cost him that commission since the theater owner actually knew the actress he’d been requested to illustrate for, and _knew_ her eyes were a _teal_ , not a turquoise.)

Just because some of the color subtleties – because each color choice and coordination had _meaning_ , Bucky, _nothing_ was unintentional for an artist – escaped him, didn’t mean that once they came out, he didn’t enjoy the movies with color. It just meant that Bucky spent most of the movie signing into his hand some of the colors that he couldn’t see, but Bucky could see in their full vibrancy like the bluest of blues and greenest of greens that was the sky and water, and grass, unlike what was around and in New York.

(He’d _loved_ the Wizard of Oz for its color, even if Bucky’s hand had cramped by the end of it, and _he’d_ been fascinated about the _red_ of her slippers for weeks after.)

Despite how Bucky swore each and every way to Sunday that he was _talented_ – that if he had the money, he’d buy a Steve Rogers original, buy _all_ of his work at full-price because they’d be _worth_ the money – his drawings just _didn’t_ make him a lot of money.

Nor did they earn him any favors, since more than a few of his fights had been because the other party had thought it made him less of a man that it was close to the only thing he could do.

( _Bucky never told him that he’d thrown the first punch – and the last; Bucky always threw the last – because some of them had said “he could suck dick or take it up the ass” too, and implied he should, more times than he could count._

 _He’d heard them a few times though, so he_ knew _._ )

As much as Steve loved drawing, he needed another job.

Only, he was getting a little old to be a paperboy when children half his age could do twice as much in half the time, and his job options as a man were limited.

(Maybe he had his pride, but his sense of shame had died a _long_ time ago thanks to Bucky.

And maybe, there was a thrill; maybe it felt a little _right_.)

Wearing a dress wasn’t something new – and maybe for all that he _tried_ to be butch, was bound and determined to _be_ manly, so that Bucky wasn’t accused of rooming with a fairy, that _he_ wasn’t accused of _being_ a fairy – and if doing so – if playing at being a woman beyond just the safety of a game for Becca in her home – let him do the sort of jobs where being physically strong weren’t a necessity, he _would_.

He didn’t hesitate to pull a dress on.

It didn’t mean that he looked anything different than a man wearing a dress though, which was where the neighbor down the hall, Jamie, helped.

Jamie had been born a man, but she was such a beautiful dame that no one would know that she had to shave her face each morning and wore high collars to hide her adam’s apple. She helped make him actually _look_ like a woman instead of a man in a dress, and she listened to him explain unnecessarily why he wanted to do this, didn’t get mad that he was doing this to get a job he could do even when she went through so much trouble and was harassed most days for not being what ‘God intended at birth’.

( _After she’d dolled him up that first time, she’d smiled and said that he didn’t look half bad as a woman._

 _Then she’d winked and said if he was ever looking for a partner, she would snatch him up in a heartbeat, then laughed as he’d blushed. Tucking his hair behind his ear as she’d said that she was a lot of things, but she wasn’t the sort to date someone who had their heart set on somebody else._ )

Thanks to Jamie giving him tips – to add onto what he’d had a lifetime to observe from his mother, from Winifred, from the girls at Ms. Clare’s – when he left to start working at the mills for a shift or two in his mother’s dresses, no one blinked twice. Particularly with the high turnover rate that meant it wasn’t unusual to see a new face, and ‘Stephanie Rogers’ was just another worker.

He _remembered_ putting on those dresses a _lot._

He _remembered_ that Ms. Clare’s girls – when something of theirs didn’t fit or couldn’t be re-hemmed and changed into another outfit any longer without falling apart – didn’t mind if he took some of the clothes home.

(His mother had taught him how to sew and darn, and with Winifred a seamstress – while George had been a steelworker – whenever there was work, he’d learned a fair bit about making and adjusting clothes. _More_ than enough to at least alter the girls’ old clothes to fit him and give him the allusion of a few _assets_.)

Aside from the job at the mills – which he wasn’t much fond of, and always made sure to before he took a shift to practice with his knife how to pick locks so he didn’t end up like his mother’s mother who had died in the Triangle Shirt Fire – he took work as a seamstress.

( _Which, looking back, he was still amazed that he hadn’t worked a shift with Winifred, because she was still working as one, he heard about her just as she probably heard about a ‘Stephanie Rogers’ that she could realize was_ him _, and didn’t have anyone call him_ Steve _._ )

As he worked, he could blame a crooked seam, an uneven thread-line on his experience, _not_ the fact this eyesight had always been just a bit blurry, just a bit fuzzy, and not the reason why he had almost always squinted slightly to be able to see mostly-clearly.

(But he’d known it was only a matter of time before Bucky dragged him off to get glasses even before starting work as a seamstress.)

He got _away_ with that excuse because most seamstresses could be identified by the fact that after a while, all of them squinted from the long hours in low light doing detailed work. Just as he was able to dismiss how his hands ached and were stiff, despite how he had been feeling it even before putting on a dress for work.

It was hard work, being a seamstress full-time on top of the occasional shift at the mills, the steady work at Ms. Clare’s and the periodic work as an illustrator for movies.

He’d pretended to not notice the fact that despite the fact Bucky came home just as exhausted as him, he didn’t hesitate to kick him off to bed after he started rubbing at his eyes, only to stay up himself to finish his work like a too-big brownie.

(Even if it was rather obvious when he _remembered_ not finishing before having to leave in the morning not long after Bucky did, and that Bucky’s work was consistently steadier and neater, not to mention quicker – because he wasn’t deeply asleep when Bucky would join him in bed, so it hadn’t been _that_ long since he had.)

He pretended to not notice because the fight hadn’t been worth it, when Bucky would do it anyway, and wave him off because he was used to the work since like most children of a seamstress, he’d helped his mother.

It didn’t even draw much attention, because it wasn’t even like the was the only one to have slightly different pieces of work – because they all did, it was the only way to finish the amount of work they had. Or, it _wouldn’t have_ if not for how one of the other girls he worked with asked him once on who was helping him – since she had her sister to, and the others had mothers, sisters, children to, but Stephanie didn’t from what they knew of him, and she was new enough to be unaware of the unspoken rule to pretend they didn’t have someone helping them – and he’d blushed.

The blush had drawn the attention of the older dames, like hunting dogs scenting blood.

Some of them had started to smile like Winifred before she asked a question and he knew that he could either tell her or not, but she would find out regardless – and he’d answered, stuttering out Bucky’s name.

And _maybe_ , he could have followed that up with calling Bucky his brother, and even been believed despite his blushing, but when she had followed that up with asking who Bucky was, the blush had gotten darker and his hand had gone to the candy ring he wore on a chain with his rosary.

They’d cooed at him as he’d found himself telling them about how his fella had made him a promise as children, and instead of going out on dates, they stayed at home most days, and sometimes Bucky helped him finish when he was falling asleep mid-stitch.

(He _remembered_ how after that, he’d started to wear a Claddagh as Stephanie, the heart turned towards him to show he was taken.

Then how Bucky had started to wear one the same way not long after.

He _remembered_ the mix of confusion, surprise, heartbreak – and also _hope_ that Bucky meant it the way he _wanted it so badly to be_.)

After that, when Bucky told him about his dates – he couldn’t help but notice that while he made sure to show them a good time, most of them now never got more than a kiss goodnight – and it didn’t take most of their old neighborhood long to think that the wild, charming, love-them-all Bucky Barnes had found himself a steady he was willing to settle down with.

( _He_ very _distinctly_ remembered _in early 1938 when Winifred found out – and he_ still _wasn’t sure how she’d found out so quickly about Bucky’s Claddagh since Bucky had_ just _started wearing it – and had over Sunday dinner, had point blank asked who his girl was._

 _He_ remembered _it so well because_ Bucky _had_ blushed _. Steve_ remembered _because he’d thought Bucky was rather incapable of blushing like that since they were_ nine _._

_George Barnes, drunk already, had just loudly laughed at his son’s embarrassment before he took his plate of food away from the table while saying, “Winnie, leave the boy alone! He’ll tell us when he realizes that he’s serious about her to the point of marriage.”_

_The rest of the dinner had been uncomfortable because even if Winifred had let the subject go, she hadn’t let the subject of George’s new habit of eating dinner away from the table go._

_Bucky had never told him that after that dinner, he’d confided in Becca about why he wore the Claddagh and for who, but he_ remembered _the dark look she’d given her brother until he had. He_ remembered _knowing that he must have though, because Becca had made a comment to him that sounded a_ lot _like a threat – and one directed towards_ him _, though he_ remembered _thinking he must have been mistaken about that – that her brother’s lover better realize he was dating them – and he_ remembered _hoping for a moment if she wasn’t saying_ her _for a reason but convincing himself it was because_ Becca _was making assumptions – and not start dating someone else before then either, and that her brother was just being a coward over just asking them out because otherwise how were they supposed to know they were_ more _than good enough for her brother._

 _He_ remembered _being_ very _suspicious of her when her eyes had positively sparkled with mischief when looking his way, but not saying a word. Even if he’d impressed that she’d resisted his pouting at her – because he’d gotten more than one person, who wasn’t just Bucky, to cave with the look; and_ remembering _that reassured him that Becca would be_ fine _even if neither he nor Bucky would be there to scare the ever-living-shit out of her partner._ )

He _remembered_ how after the Claddagh, there was a change in the air in their apartment, something he couldn’t quite put a name on.

(Not from lack of trying. He knew what he _wanted_ the change to be, but Bucky liked dames – real dames, not pretenders like him – but he couldn’t figure out another explanation than one he’d already deemed impossible.)

Not long after an awkward family dinner at the Barnes’, he woke up one morning to find that his mother’s dresses fit just a little better, and were joined by some of Becca’s old dresses by the time he came back from a shift at the mills, all proudly hung up in their closet.

If all that wasn’t enough to throw him through a loop – because before this, they both pretended that Steve had kept his mother’s dresses just as a keepsake, and that Bucky didn’t _know_ about Stephanie Rogers, and that he sometimes didn’t wear one just _because_ – then the fact that soon after, a sprig and a flower had been left on their kitchen table in full view.

(Who _they were from was never in doubt, even if they never did talk about this_.)

He didn’t know what they had meant, or why they were there, but he’d understand they meant _something_ , so he’d pressed them into the pages of one of his sketchbooks full of Bucky. Then he’d brought them to the next time he worked with his regular group of seamstresses – the ones that knew about _Bucky_ – and had gathered his courage, stuck out his chin and boldly asked what they _meant._

(A sprig of arbor vitae and an apple blossom. _Unchanging friendship_ and _preference._ )

A few days later, coming home late again instead of before the end of Bucky’s long shifts at the docks, he’d found two new flowers.

His first thought was _where was Bucky getting these_ , but then he’d quickly made to press them too, a blush on his cheeks at the thought of Bucky seeing him getting _soft_ like this over some flowers.

The older seamstresses had been smiling as they’d seen these new flowers, their eyes soft as they told about their own youthful loves and then Mary’s eyes sparkling at how _somebody_ was taking the time to send such _romantic_ messages.

(A dwarf sunflower and a peach rose. _Admiration_ and _appreciation_.)

The next time he was late again, another flower and sprig were waiting for him, and once might have been an accident, twice a coincidence, but _three_ times was a pattern. He only got flowers on days he was running late.

(A red morning glory and a sprig of black popular. _Attachment_ and _courage_.)

The seamstresses started to eagerly look forward to him getting flowers like this, waxing lyrically about the fact that even if it _was_ spring, his fella still went out of his way to get these. Because some of them weren’t the sort that you could just pluck from Central Park, and had to _buy_.

(For that, Steve _almost_ put an end to this, bitterly practical about their finances even if they weren’t going hungry by any measure; even if Steve found himself looking forward to what would be waiting for him when he got home. He couldn’t though, because Bucky didn’t seem to realize how he’d smile softly when no one was looking; looking so _happy_ that Steve couldn’t find it in himself to tell Bucky to _stop_.)

Steve found himself enjoying the game of trying to guess what would come next alongside with the other seamstresses, what they would mean.

(Sometimes getting swept along with the dames about what romantic sentiment might be attached, sometimes bitter over how the flowers were for Stephanie and not him, and sticking to more friendly statements.)

He didn’t _try_ to come home late, as it was always a gamble for when Bucky would get off early enough to not just beat him home but get there with enough time to spare to pick up flowers, but he no longer rushed home like it was the end of the world not getting their dinner started before Bucky came back.

(And just because some days he would come home to a pair of flowers, it didn’t mean he got into any less fights – wearing a dress some days just meant _less_ fights, and that he could fight dirty from the get-go, even winning a fight or two without Bucky having to step in if they hesitated – or that he didn’t get sick.

He still got sick, still got asthma attacks, and his bones still creaked and groaned and when the weather started to change, Bucky still had to help massage cream into his joints so that he didn’t wake up as stiff as a board, unable to leave their bed from the pain.

He still did whatever illustration work he could get, still worked at Ms. Clare’s in the evenings accompanied by Bucky, ands till had Sunday dinners with the Barnes.

It just meant that some days Stephanie would get flowers from her fella, and Steve would smile for days whenever he looked at the growing number of flowers pressed into his sketchbooks. It meant that he could draw Bucky with expressions that he’d only ever hoped to catch glimpses of.

It still meant that Bucky still went on dates every once in a while – because for all that ‘Stephanie’ had become his steady without them ever talking about how Stephanie was Steve, she could never come to meet his ma – _talking_ all night and with no shame as walked around without pants.

It just meant Bucky would sweep him up and _touch_ , dropping kisses on his head, without as much pretense.

It just meant that Steve realized that perhaps all those _Punk_ he heard, were perhaps Bucky saying _I love you_ ; mirroring his _Jerk_ , even if they never said those three little words directly.)

( _If Steve had dreamed of the day that he could loop his arm through Bucky’s arm, sometimes in a dress, sometimes in pants, and_ be _his sweetheart, that was his dream to take to the grave alone._

 _Even if Bucky had whispered once when he thought he wouldn’t remember after the fever broke that he dreamed of the day that he could have both Stephanie and Steve, and could yell from the rooftops that Steve was_ his _and_ he _was Steve’s. And he’d never told him that he_ remembered _after the serum._ )

They never spoke of how that that line they’d been skirting had been crossed – that for all they’d crossed too many lines to be ‘just friends’ – and yet, _couldn’t_ cross anymore without being ‘just friends’ being a total lie.

( _They should have talked about it, but there had been a plausible deniability still if they didn’t_ acknowledge _what was between them. Just like how they never quite went all the way – at first because his health had been too poor for them to risk it – even after the serum – because if they were_ caught _, the consequences had been clear if not defined outright._ )

Hanging over their head was Steve’s bad health, on top of how all the doctors still said that it was miracle that Steve was _alive_ , let alone had lived as long as he had, and that there was no hope that he would live to thirty.

They didn’t talk about it, but it didn’t matter that Bucky’s presence had seemed to buy him some time before the Morrigan came for him if she was really keeping her distance the way Steve though, because every year was harder. Every year, his body failed him more and more, and the pain he was in all the time, slowly grew, and even if Bucky _refused_ to talk about it, Steve knew it would only be a matter of time before something vital failed and there was nothing the doctors would be able to do but ease his pain.

(His lousy health was probably honestly a good part of the reason they’d gone so far from ‘just friends’ despite both of them just _not_ talking about what was between them, because any day could be his last and Bucky was increasingly _determined_ that if so, that it was a _good_ day.)

Hanging around their necks like a noose was how if they crossed that final line – if they took that risk with his health – then for all that it was thought _wrong_ for a man to love another man, it wasn’t actually illegal as long as they didn’t commit sodomy.

(Even if they were both aware that it was only a technicality. Just being thought _too_ close could get them accused as much, but the whole neighborhood _knew_ them, and hardly blinked twice anymore at how close they were. It had taken a new face among the cops to even question them living together so long.)

For all that they never spoke about the death of the mafia man – and Steve never said anything about the pedophile priest – they both knew that going to prison for murder would be _very_ different than going in as a convicted fairy.

Prison would not be kind to either of them, but it would be _nothing_ compared to if the rest of the prison thought they homosexuals.

(Steve knew he would not survive; his health was too frail and his spirit too strong to just _take_ the treatment.

 _Bucky_ knew that he _could_ survive the experience, could even thrive in the environment, but without Steve waiting for him on the other side, he wasn’t sure that he would come out _human_.)

( _Before the serum, it had been prison, but after, after Dr. Erskine had died and he’d been refused the front, it had been clear that he’d been considered less a person and more property to be ordered about, that he’d signed a contract in blood without an end date, and if something was thought_ wrong _with him, the military could try and claim they had the_ right _to fix him. Then use the opportunity to find out by whatever means necessary the secret of the serum._

 _Whenever they were reminded that he was walking a very fine line over what he could get away with and couldn’t, Bucky had always taken to cleaning his small-country-sized arsenal in silent promise that if they_ tried _, they’d have to get through him first._

 _While Steve would memorize the blueprints for every military base they were within fifty miles of, because where Peggy could raise bureaucratic hell to get him released over human rights if they took him away, if_ Bucky _was brought to the military’s_ attention _because of his actions – because they were_ barely _hiding the fact that Bucky had been_ changed _in Azzano, even if they never talked about it either – Steve would have few options_ other _than an assault on one of those bases to get him back._

 _Though maybe he’d – they’d – become a bit paranoid after seeing the concentration camps and what the German state was letting happen to its citizens that it quietly deemed_ lesser _, and such consequences had all been in their head._ )

Steve _remembered_ thinking that if he could have Bucky by his side for as long as he remained on the earth – knowing that he had even a _part_ of Bucky’s heart as his friend-and-something-more; never even _dreaming_ of hearing Bucky say those three little words, just like he never dreamed of Bucky not finding a wife, of not having a collection of children he hoped to live long enough to meet – that he could be _happy_. That he didn’t _need_ anything else.

He _remembered_ thinking that he could enjoy this, even if it would have to one day end.

( _He never knew that Bucky had no intention of ever ending this, of ever finding a wife if it meant forsaking Steve even a little. That Bucky would have traded nearly anything and everything but Steve himself to have him for the rest of his life, so that Steve could remain by his side past his predicted expiration date. That he’d already accepted that he would forsake the_ long _life that his siblings would have, that his father would have, when Steve died a purely mortal death._

 _Bucky never told him that after he saw that first smile in 1926, that after his eyes had lit up hearing his nickname, that he’d loved him before he’d even understood what love_ was _._ )

~

_There were people on the beach behind the blockade around Cuba._

_The_ Солдат _paused in his shot at the sight of the gaudy black-and-yellow uniform with an X across the chest, almost like a target, because despite all logic, it_ reminded _them of another gaudy uniform. One that had been blue, and parts of it red, with white trim and a_ star _._

 _They shook it off after a moment, taking aim at the one with the strange helmet that looked_ familiar _._

 _He didn’t know why, but like the uniform invoked a feeling of_ recognition _, that man did too._

_Then missiles were fired, and the man stopped them in mid-air with a wave of his hand, turning them around to face the blockade they were hidden amongst for their Mission of de-escalating tensions if negotiations failed._

_The_ Солдат felt _their left arm_ sing _with the man’s power, hardly listening to them, before it was crushing their rifle on its own._

_They retreated from the blockade as quick as possible, understanding better than the sailors they’d hidden among that the man could kill them all with just a thought. All it would require is for him to peel open part of the ships’ hulls, or crush them into a ball._

_For the first time, the_ Солдат _was_ afraid _of someone other than their handlers, afraid more of the man taking what little control they had over themselves for himself, than of how their retreat would be construed as abandoning the Mission and what would follow because of that._

 _They didn’t understand though, as they returned, of their handlers preoccupation over this ‘new’ world power – people with strange powers that were being called_ Mutants _– so much so that they were not punished for their retreat, but rewarded for returning with a first-hand account of how the man’s power had worked._

 _The_ Солдат _held their tongue over how they thought they’d seen such powers before._

~

The flowers for Stephanie continued from 1934 into ’35, into ’36.

(It was decided by the seamstresses that they began with what his fella saw in him, all the qualities in Stephanie that Bucky admired.

Cloves and amaryllis; _dignity_ and _pride_. Canary grass and cedar; _perseverance_ and _strength_. Monkshood and mercury; _chivalry_ and _goodness_. Allspice and chervil; _compassion_ and _sincerity_. Crocus saffron and meadow lychnis; _mirth_ and _wit_. Fraxinella and white oak; _fire_ and _independence_. Lucerne and lupine; _life_ and _vicariousness_. Cranberries and mandrake; _hardiness_ and _rarity_. Chamomile and oak-leaved geranium; _energy in adversity_ and _true friendship_. Bearded crepis and snowdrops; _protection_ and _hope_.

What he offered to her.

Bluebell and cress; _constancy_ and _stability_. Circaea and a purple rose; _fascination_ and _enchantment_. Juniper and alstroemeria; _protection_ and _loyalty_. Mezereon and a red peony; _desire to please_ and _devotion_. Holly and coral honeysuckle; _domestic happiness_ and _generous and devoted affection_. Frankincense and wild geranium; _faithful heart_ and _steadfast piety_. Ivy and a yellow rose; _fidelity_ and _happiness_.

More of what he saw in her, with more _intent_.

Burgundy and fennel; _unconscious beauty_ and _worthy of all praise_. American cowslip and a peach; _divine beauty_ and _your qualities, like your charms are unequaled_.)

Even as he cut back on his hours at the mill in favor of training at the hospital, and Bucky started coming home with sums of money far more than he could earn at the docks, his clothes splattered with blood.

( _He had never asked and Bucky had never said, but he’d known where he was getting that money._

 _It was there in the new patrons to Ms. Clare’s, the ones who’d greet Bucky in Russian and then seem to do nothing more than enjoy the evening._ )

By 1937, he was no longer working as a seamstress but as a nurse, but he still came in on his off-days to help them – and show them his latest pair of flowers.

( _Even if he’d long since found books about what the meanings were on his own, and memorized it front-to-back._

 _He came because they became so lively at the ‘mystery’ and ‘romance’ of the flowers, smiling and laughing and looking ten years younger as they told him what each meant, giggling as he blushed._ )

Flowers that continued into a third year without any indication of stopping.

(Coreopsis and Indian jasmine; _love at first sight_ and _I attach myself to you_. Dodecatheon and flax; _you are my divinit_ y and _the color of my fate_. A branch of a plum tree and primrose; _keep your promise_ and _I can’t live without you_. Purple pansy and milkvetch; _you occupy my thoughts_ and _your presence softens my pain_ s. Melianthus and forget-me-not; _love sweet and secret_ and _true love, forget me not_. A green branch of a locust tree and a pink carnation; _affection to beyond the grave_ and _I will never forget you_.)

Then in 1938, an oak spoon carved into the shape of a Celtic knot showed up one day.

( _Steve hadn’t been able to help the laugh that had boiled up at the sight, as he’d carefully traced the design inlaid from end to end and admired the amount of work put into it. This sort of gift was an old tradition, a declaration of intent the likes of which promised a long life together for as long as the spoon lasted._ )

With the spoon, Bucky – who’d been going on fewer and fewer dates over the last year since before the red peony, and only the occasional since before the melianthus – stopped going on dates with dames entirely.

(Like it was a promise and a vow.)

The flowers may have begun this almost-courtship, but they weren’t the only sign of affection.

(Dresses showed up in their closet, better fitting and thicker. Knitted things that he could swear was from Becca if anyone asked where they were from. Nice underthings that he started to wear most days, even without the dress.)

Then, instead of dates with dames, Bucky started taking him to jazz clubs in Harlem and they would drink in the back of Ms. Clare’s with the girls, dancing as soft music crooned.


	12. where there's an end -

_There were moments where Steve was more aware after Beira had taken his life in her cold hands that he thought that despite how he’d walked fearlessly into death’s embrace, that his_ rage _kept him_ alive _._

 _His anger had always been a part of him, but it had grown and_ burned _in his chest as the world had built towards war – had tried to stave off war in favor of letting_ atrocities _happen. It had been fueled by every injustice he witnessed, every injustice that he railed against, stoked higher and higher by every person that just let the status quo stand, that willingly and eagerly perpetuated those that put others down._

_He’d been arrested for taking part in protests, in strikes, more times than he could count by the time war had broken out in Europe._

_Then even as thousands were unwillingly drafted after Pearl Harbor, he’d volunteered._

_No one had_ asked _him – not even Bucky – why he’d been so_ desperate _to sign up even when he_ knew _there was no way he would have been taken as he was. Everyone had always assumed it because he wanted to do what was_ right _, and if no one else would, he would fight every injustice, every tyranny, every oppressive action by himself – and in the beginning, it had been._

 _It had been why Dr. Erskine had called him a_ good man _._

_But the truth wasn’t so simple, wasn’t so black-and-white by time he met Dr. Erskine. It hadn’t been since well before Bucky had gotten his draft letter and had went off to training; by then, it had almost been something else entirely._

_He’d been desperate to fight, not for his country, not to protect all those threatened by axis powers, not even to free all those oppressed people, but to protect one man – to end the war before that one man became just another victim in the fields of bodies Hitler sat his throne on._

_His desire to protect Bucky had led him behind enemy lines alone with a wooden shield and a chorus girl’s helmet, at just the_ possibility _that he’d become a POW instead of being_ dead _. It became part of the legend of Captain America how he’d gone off the reservation just to know without a doubt that his friend was dead, even if the only ones who’d really_ understood _that had been Bucky himself, Peggy, Colonel Phillips, and the Howling Commandos. Everyone else had made their own assumptions of why he’d been on the front lines for less than an hour before charging an enemy stronghold on his own._

 _They’d been the only ones to know that it would have been a_ very _different story if Bucky had been dead before he’d gotten there. They were the only ones who might have known what would have happened if he had managed to get overseas for the war effort, even if he’d still been a skinny little asthmatic, only to find out Bucky was_ dead.

 _(Bucky was the only one who would have_ known _, even if Peggy and the Howling Commandos might have had a_ very _good idea. They’d known the_ difference _between Captain America and Steve Rogers, and why it had mattered that it hadn’t been Captain America but_ Steve Rogers _that had acted against orders.)_

 _No one had asked though, so no one would have heard him proudly say that he would have_ burned _the world alive to avenge Bucky to make sure that he got every single one of Hydra; that he would have challenged any god that held Bucky’s soul to get it back, holding the scorched earth behind him as tribute._

 _(He still_ would _, but war had left him tired down to his_ soul _, and if Bucky was at peace on the other side, he’d rather join him than drag him back into a fight. He could never forget how_ tired _Bucky had been of war, and how they’d been fighting so long they’d almost forgotten what a life without a war was like by ‘44.)_

 _He_ knew _that the other Howling Commandos remembered Bucky describing him as fifty pounds of rage in a ten-pound paper bag just waiting for a spark to set it alight; it had been there in their support at his back as he’d hunted down Schmidt with a single-minded purpose, to cut the head of the snake off._

 _He’d_ known _that once Hydra was leaderless, he could leave the rest to the Ghost Company that had been baying for blood in the wake of Bucky’s death and leave the war behind to hunt for Bucky’s body._

 _Because Colonel Phillips hadn’t found_ Bucky _as he'd flown the_ Valkyrie _over the Atlantic._

 _Maybe the fight to_ live _was just beyond his grasp, but the rage over never bringing Bucky_ home _still burned in his belly. The rage stirred him from the icy fog the ice had left him in, and he_ remembered _now to stoke that rage with the grief of_ could-have-been _and_ the-future-that-never-was _._

 _The rage bayed him to_ wake _and salt and burn the earth beneath the claws of the monster that had killed Bucky, to burn them from the very pages of history until they were just a whispered story told to scare children. The rage that almost_ hoped _that Hydra hadn’t been dismantled just so that he could turn it upon a target – its_ rightful _target._

 _(Considering that the Ghost Company had been made up almost entirely – aside from the handful of SSR agents like Peggy, and of course, Howard – of those that had suffered at Hydra’s hands – since most of them had been from the 107 th or at Azzano when he’d raided it – and had followed them into war against Hydra, he doubted that Hydra had survived long past him. They’d wanted blood and death from Hydra, because they weren’t like the scores of Germans that they’d found eager to desert Hitler once there had been the option to; Hydra was _true _zealots, and they’d_ believed _what they’d done was only right, and they wouldn’t_ stop _for_ nothing _but_ being _stopped.)_

 _If once he was free of this ice, he found even a_ whiff _of Hydra, this_ rage _that he fostered now, he would turn it loose on the world that had taken Bucky from him and then he would bargain the gods the lives he ended for just one soul._

 _And so, the world shifted on the back of a great serpent as the_ Valkyrie _caught on its scales and pulled it from the depths._

~

Winifred’s extended family had been _anxious_ since before the Market Crash, and had only grown more so as the years had passed and they had heard of the restrictions put upon cousins from Germany to Poland for being a Jew. _Nervous_ as sentiment had turned against them like they’d had blame for the failing crops and the collapse of the economy, and as many of them that could, outright _escaped_ Germany with the mandatory registration.

Then in the spring of 1939, Winifred’s brother Noah had been attacked on his way home from work; was _assaulted_ just for being a _Jew_.

(He’d finally felt like he’d _understood_ then, why George had been so insistent that the Jewish in his house be kept quiet for all these years, to the point that the youngest Barnes, Evie, hardly knew that she _was_ Jewish.

They shouldn’t have to hide _here_ , but _survival_ trumped _pride_.)

In September, stories of war in Europe reached them, and things got _tense_ in their neighborhood.

The Eckersteins were _afraid_ of their neighbors as some of their cousins sent them letters after narrowing escaping being rounded up like their fellows still in Poland after Germany had invaded.

(Not all of their cousins had managed.

Some hadn’t left because they’d thought it was still safe in Poland, and others had just immigrated to other places trying to get ahead of the Nazi menace. Most of them though, had sent their children to cousins and friends in safer countries.

The Eckersteins had been hosting six young distant cousins for a year already because of that, and one of them was _terrified_ for her parents because they hadn’t managed to escape Poland and friends had sent word that they’d been taken to a concentration camp.)

Steve hadn’t been _quiet_ as he’d gone off on how if _someone_ didn’t oppose Germany here, then they were just condoning their actions to terrorize and violently discriminate.

( _They’d never thought the Third Reich would try to swallow the world, successfully holding out against a combined might of multiple countries while they waged war on multiple fronts._ )

He’d been very _vocal_ at how America should make it clear that all those fleeing Germany’s tyranny were welcome on their shores.

(He’d _known_ they _couldn’t_ be – and _wouldn’t_ , considering the immigration policies in place – but they were _the land of the free_ , didn’t they have a _duty_ to offer refuge to the oppressed?)

Bucky always got a tight look on his face and stayed quiet as he ranted and _ranted_.

(Almost always looking like he was biting his tongue to _not_ say, _not everyone is like you, Stevie_.)

They’d both known that America wouldn’t enter the war until there was no choice to, not when the most of the country thought _it’s not our business_.

(People still badmouthed President Wilson’s actions of bringing them into the Great War, sneered when talking about his attempts to create a multi-national alliance. They were leery of a repeat of getting involved like Germany was _their_ problem too.)

Only, that old fire _burned_ in his chest.

[ _Stoked to fresh life, to_ act-]

He wanted to _go_ and fight against oppression, against tyranny, because that was what was _right_.

( _He hadn’t said anything then, but the Morrigan had stopped keeping as much of a distance, always on the edges of his sight, and he’d_ known _that he didn’t have much longer. Living to his thirtieth birthday had always been a pipe dream, and now he doubted that he would make it to his twenty-fifth._

 _His death was guaranteed for the near future, but Steve didn’t want to die in his bed without a fight. He wanted to_ fight _for something._

 _Then it would have been a_ good _death, a_ warrior’s _death, and when the Morrigan came, it wouldn’t be as a raven. She would come as a woman wearing black, feathers in her hair and a circlet of silver atop her head, to escort him to halls of the honorable dead to wait for the battle at the end of the world._ )

If it hadn’t meant leaving Bucky, Stephanie would have signed up in heartbeat to volunteer as a nurse overseas, because even his poor health would have been overlooked with the growing need for trained medics.

( _He_ dreamed _of a life where he’d gone._

 _Bucky would have followed, not to fight, but ensure he didn’t_ die _from an attempt to stop his attempts to give aid. They would have moved from battle to battle, and maybe he would have stayed away from the fighting and the wounded brought to him, but he doubted he would have. He_ dreamed _of running through battlefields, applying battle-dressings to all those he could, and Bucky following on his heels, shooting at those that tried to kill them, and carrying the wounded he couldn’t back to camp for more proper care._

 _He_ dreamed _of how he might have met Peggy and the Howling Commandos in other ways._

 _He_ dreamed _of meeting Peggy sneaking into a German camp for information, as he stole medicine from German and English alike. He_ dreamed _of meeting Dum-Dum again when they crossed paths with the 107 th somewhere in France. He _dreamed _of meeting James when the Royal Marines sent a strike force into the heart of France. He_ dreamed _of finding Jim performing triage on the battlefield, and working with him. He_ dreamed _of Gabe’s unit being cornered and hearing his radio calls for aid. He_ dreamed _of Jaq introducing himself with an explosion._

 _He couldn’t_ dream _of a scenario that had him surviving the war, of a life after the war, because he would have died on an unnamed battlefield when his heart gave out on him – and his last memory would have Bucky_ screaming _as he fell to the bloody ground as it began to snow._ )

He hadn’t been able to tell Bucky of the whispers he’d heard of _who_ Hitler was rounding up and sending to concentration camps – because Bucky was practically the _poster child_ of everyone Hitler wanted _gone_.

(Jewish, Roma, _something_ of a homosexual.)

Even if Nazis couldn’t know all of that on sight, it was undeniable that he didn’t _look_ the part of Hitler’s perfect people.

(Not like Steve did, with his blond hair and blue eyes. If he kept quiet and played along, if his health had been better, he would have been a _perfect_ fit, and his looks had never disgusted him more.)

He hadn’t been able to even get _near_ telling Bucky why he’d wanted to go fight Nazis because he’d been caught on _what if either set of Bucky’s grandparents hadn’t immigrated_.

( _He_ dreamed _of what other lives Bucky could have led._

 _Traveling with his grandmother’s people despite his grandfather being a_ gadjo _, living wild and free. Walking the lands his grandfather had once owned, possibly for the rest of eternity considering that twenty years hadn’t appeared to age the elder Barnes at all. Living amongst the snow and ice, not needing to be born as someone because he’d_ prove _he was someone._

 _Maybe, they could have still met even then, but it was more likely that the war would have come to him and been nothing but_ cruel _._

 _Run out of towns, captured by Nazis, and sent to die in concentration camps, put under the knife to try and find what made him less. Overrun by the USSR and possibly dying defending his family’s home. Sent to fight and die to conquer the lands they’d once owned and lost in the last couple of centuries._ )

Then Germany had broken its non-aggression pact with Russia and tried to invade in June, 1941.

Joining his nightmares of Bucky being forcibly registered as a Jew then being disappeared in the middle of the night, of Bucky being put in a concentration camp and then tortured, experimented on, and killed, was the nightmare of Bucky fighting tooth-and-nail as it starts to snow before retreating as a city is burned to the ground.

They had woken him up nearly every night because he could easily imagine a thousand way those three scenarios could play out, could become reality if Bucky went overseas, and only the presence of Bucky next to him eased the _fear_ sitting heavy in his chest.

Then the war had come to them on December 7th, and Steve had gone out the very next day to try and enlist because he _couldn’t_ have those nightmares become reality.

( _Then his nightmares_ had _become reality at Azzano, and yet his nightmares had_ paled _in comparison._

 _Only the fact that Bucky_ hadn’t _died there, had let him push it all aside, but the sight of snow had always brought them back – had become all blended into the memory of Azzano until it became everything he feared._

_Or he’d thought, until Bucky had fallen from the train, then he’d found a new worst nightmare._

_It’d been snowing then too._ )

He _remembered_ their arguments following Pearl Harbor, of how he’d wanted _desperately_ to enlist and Bucky refusing to consider it. Then how _angry_ – and _scared_ – he’d been when he’d tried to volunteer anyway.

Bucky had been waiting outside the rapidly sprung up enlistment center the first time, ready to pick up his spirits with a bottle of coke and a small lop-sided smile like he _hadn’t_ just tried to enlist bellied by the _look_ in his eyes.

(He’d realized that Bucky had been _terrified_ he would succeed on the way home, with Bucky’s grip too tight around his shoulders as he’d all but frog-marched him away before he could try again.)

Then, he hadn’t been able to look Bucky in the face from his guilt.

(And the guilt he’d felt for the relief that he’d failed, because he’d _failed_ and now no one could make him go off to war and leave Bucky behind.)

He _remembered_ not sleeping at all that night, clutching at his carved spoon and thinking that he’d _failed_ Bucky. Failed because Bucky _would_ end up going to war, whether he wanted to or not, and it was _him_ that wouldn’t be able to follow.

He _remembered_ nearly begging Bucky to help him enlist, and for Bucky to plead that he stay in Brooklyn, where it was _safe_ , and help in the factories if he _had_ to help.

(He _remembered_ that Bucky had _won_ that argument because he could see it brought Bucky a little peace of mind knowing that he would be safe from the war, and if Bucky was to go to war, he didn’t want him distracted over if he was _safe_.)

Not that he could help in the _factories_ , and so he had instead turned to drawing posters for the war effort with Ms. Clare’s girls, and Stephanie worked more shifts than ever as colleagues went overseas.

He _remembered_ Bucky putting in extra hours before dawn and after dusk, more than _anyone_ , and all but sleeping at the docks and the suddenly churning war factories. He _remembered_ that Bucky had wanted to make himself _irreplaceable_ , so that he might be excused from the joining the war effort elsewhere like the boys that went in droves overseas.

(He _knew_ that Bucky hadn’t been afraid of serving. That his reluctance was in how they’d _seen_ what it had done to George.

War had made a broken man of Bucky’s father; it had driven him to drink when he didn’t even _like_ the taste of alcohol, driven him to drink well past his limits, again and again even when he was _disgusted_ and _ashamed_ of his actions after he’d gotten to the point of black-out drunk, because of _nightmares_ the man still had even twenty years later, awake _or_ asleep. They’d seen how some days he was scared of his own shadow, _seen_ how other days, he’d been _driven_ to pick fights and _feel_ pain to remind of the then-and-now.

They hadn’t forgotten how Winifred _screamed_ when she’d come home one day to find George had taken a knife to his wrist, and only the elder Barnes’ immediate and inexplicable knowledge of what his son had done had saved George’s life.

Steve had _known_ that Bucky didn’t want either of them to suffer that, but he’d also _known_ that Bucky didn’t want to go because it meant leaving _him_ and he couldn’t help but _resent_ him a little for _that_.)

That old fire had burned _bright_.

[ _There were embers in his chest, set aflame once more and there was_ life _in him again_ -]

He hadn’t been able to _say_ that his want to go and _fight_ was more than his need to make things _right_ – because he’d known once he said there was _more_ to it, that it would have come out that there was blood in his lungs like his mother and he couldn’t _do_ that to Bucky.

( _He’d_ believed _then and now that it had been_ better _for Bucky to never know that he had a number to how long he had left. All it would have done was_ destroy _his friend, and control their lives instead of letting them continue to live it like they had a lifetime._

 _It didn’t mean that he didn’t regret not saying anything_ at all _, because maybe then, they would have said three little words and actually_ named _what was between them instead of coming just short. Maybe he could have found the will to abandon the plane as he’d forced it into a dive, and_ lived _a life without regret because Bucky would have wanted him to not give up just because he was gone._

 _Only, he_ had _given up. He’d fought and would have kept fighting, but he hadn’t_ wanted _to keep fighting, and he hadn’t_ tried _to live when he’d seen that he could die a_ good _death._

 _Now, he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe the Morrigan had_ known _and refused to come for him for it._ )

His lungs rattled and he started to cough like his mother, blood speckling his lips and palm, and said _nothing_ before trying a second time to enlist with a different name at a different place, and how Bucky had been waiting outside there then too.

Even if Bucky hadn’t been able to hide his disgust at him trying to claim he was from _Jersey_.

(They didn’t talk about his cough.

Not even with how Bucky’s face always went tight at the sound of him struggling to breathe and yet not rushing to make him take half a dozen medicines in an attempt to fend off a coming cold. Because Steve hadn’t _needed_ to say he was _sick_ for Bucky to _know_.

The Morrigan wasn’t scared off anymore by Bucky’s golden-eyed glare, lingering nearby once more.

They didn’t talk about how Bucky would whisper into his shoulder at night when he thought Steve was asleep that he wished Steve would just for once, back down from a fight, because then, he might live for another couple of years. They didn’t talk about how Steve always pretended to not hear him, or how they both knew Steve _couldn’t_ back down from _this_ fight, no matter how much he wanted to.

Because they _knew_ Bucky would go to war soon, and Steve _refused_ to stay behind.)

He _remembered_ the day the new draft finally caught up to Bucky and how ashen he’d turned with crystal clarity.

( _Even before the serum, he had remembered every detail of that day, of how it’d begun just like any other since Pearl Harbor, of how Bucky had returned with the mail and had been casually reading through their letters only to cut off abruptly as he’d started to read his military summons once he’d realized what he’d held in his hands. He_ remembered _the_ face _Bucky had made – the utter despair that had flashed over his face, before he’d tried to pretend it was a prank even as it had fallen flat._ )

The night before Bucky had shipped out for basic, they’d taken risks they hadn’t dared before and crossed a line, because this could be their last chance.

(Their hands had grasped desperately at each other, their voices desperate and yet still never saying those three little words because even _this_ , they could claim to be _just_ friends after, no matter that they hadn’t been since a _while_ before the _flowers_ in ‘ _34_.

Even knowing it would have better to pretend it had never happened – not so much for the law anymore, but because Bucky would have his heart broken when he died. It would _devastate_ him because Steve _knew_ he _wouldn’t_ survive the course of this war unless it ended quick, and it _wouldn’t_.

If he was a better man, he would have refused to let Bucky have this, would have cut Bucky off and sent him off with cruelty so that even if he came to hate him, he could move on.

If he was a _better_ man, he would have never encouraged any of this, and maybe Bucky would have found a dame to spend his last night with and wouldn’t have left with a mantle of secrets around his neck weighing him down.)

Bucky left while Steve slept, leaving a branch of a plum tree on their table as a reminder of their promise; _I’m with you until the end of the line._

Then he’d started to carve that branch with the intention of giving him a matching spoon by the time Bucky returned from basic – and tried to enlist a third time, this time _far_ afield, while his thoughts had been full of Bucky’s face, bloody, as he’d been surrounded by death, like _prophecy_.

( _If only he’d known then, that his dreams had been as good as any of Cassandra’s prophecies, because all those_ nightmares _he’d had for Bucky during this war – they’d been almost prophetic. Of Azzano, of Bucky’s death._

 _He would have let nothing stop him from taking Bucky far from the_ snow.)


	13. [Interlude] Bucky's enlistment

Bucky stalked the streets of Brooklyn in the early morning with a frown heavy on his face.

He’d left Steve asleep in their bed before tiptoeing like a thief out of their home not an hour before, leaving well before he needed to report to the nearest recruitment center because he _could_ have stayed until Steve had woken, but if he had, he would have ended up never leaving.

Even if it meant that he would have gotten charged with skipping out on the draft, he wouldn’t have left because _his_ _Stevie_ was _dying_ and _he_ _didn’t want to leave him_. Steve thought he was so smart, hiding how he was dying of the same thing his mother had, but Bucky had _smelt_ the blood on his breathe long before he’d started coughing.

Steve was dying, and he didn’t have _long_.

He’d always smelt a bit of _death_ – he didn’t know if that was just because he’d never shaken if off from any of the dozens of close calls he’d had over the years, or if it was just part of him now because he _should_ have been dead and the Goddess of Death herself had given him a little more time – but the scent had become gradually stronger. _Instinctively_ , Bucky knew Steve wouldn’t survive another year, maybe not even half of that – and part of him _mourned_ already.

He mourned and raged and had wanted to take Steve far from here, to take him away from this war to the home his grandfather had spoken off – the one where his first wife and son were buried – and meet the sunrise there with Steve.

Bucky would have skipped the draft without hesitation, if he could have managed to take Steve to Romania right away, but passage overseas was restricted and he didn’t have enough _time_. He could have handled how Steve would been a mix of _I’m_ - _happy_ - _you-won’t-leave_ and _I’m-disappointed-in-you-for-not-doing-your-duty_ , and only felt a _little_ guilty about it. Being with Steve away from the war would have been worth having Steve’s righteous streak turned his way, which would have ensured that they still made _some_ effort to aid his distant cousins.

The fine – because he’d been asking some of the other boys at the shipyard what _happened_ when the draft was skipped out on – was something outrageous, or some jail time before being sent out regardless.

They couldn’t afford that if Bucky was caught skipping before they could leave the country, and _anything_ that took him away from Steve right now was _unacceptable_.

The only way out of this situation, was to _fail_ his physical upon enlistment.

He probably could have managed to bullshit his way into a fail if he’d had a little more warning, make it look _believable_ when he borrowed any one of Steve’s disqualifying medical issues, but he hadn’t, so ensuring a failure fell upon intimidating his recruiter. It wouldn’t be hard to make the man fail him out of fear, because the _threats_ the man thought he would be making would be _promises_ , and then he could go back to Steve and say he’d _tried_.

He’d mean _tried – and succeeded –_ to _fail_ , but Steve didn’t need to hear that; he’d know.

He’d paused outside the recruitment for a long moment once he was later than expected, but not so late that he’d be charged with desertion, straightened himself up so that he looked presentable – trying for a 4F didn’t mean that he couldn’t look _good_ – then sauntered in with a wide smile a little too sharp to be _friendly_.

He didn’t try to hide the ring tattoos on his hands – flashed them even in the face of the recruiter – as he handed over his draft letter for him to check off those expected to show up. Smirking as he flashed his unofficial rap sheet in its full glory, long enough to span across all ten fingers.

Only, the man didn’t even blink at them – didn’t even seem to _recognize_ what they meant he was associated with.

It made him blink instead, because these sorts of tattoos were some of the more well-known – the sort that said he had gang ties, without necessarily being specific about _what_ sort.

So, he leaned against the desk the man was sat at after rolling up his sleeves to showcase the wonderful rendition of a prowling, agitated tiger done by Stevie on his right forearm.

Again, no reaction from the _recruiter_.

Which was _too bad_ , because _that_ one should have scared him shitless considering how he’d earned that one from a uniform looking too closely at his home life.

Another draftee though, having been looking curiously his way at his arrival, blanched at the sight and his grin had come back at the sight. The _smile_ had grown when the man looked close to fainting when he saw the tiger’s counterpart that Steve had also done, on his left forearm was of a bull pawing the ground with razor-sharp horns.

The sight was amusing even if it was frustrating that his target didn’t seem to have any understanding of what the ink _meant_ though. The recruiter should have been _afraid_ because of that one.

Bucky was actually a little flummoxed at his non-reaction – a quiet _tsk_ was all he got – and instead figured if he couldn’t scare the recruiter, there had to be someone _else_ in the room that he could put the fear of the gods into to get failed. He started filling out the forms the recruiter passed over to him with his left hand, and scratched at the back of his head to show off that riding the tiger on his arm was a monk writing in a book with a quill pen.

The fact that _someone_ knew what _that_ meant considering one man had rapidly sat down to not faint was both curious and amusing enough that it _almost_ made up for how annoyed he was becoming at the increasing possibility that he would have to leave Steve.

Then, when it came for the medical exam, he stripped off his shirt at the earliest opportunity to show off how he’d been marked to the whole room, a shit-eating grin with a too sharp edge on his face as he gestured with a dramatic flourish towards himself, “Like what you see?”

He’d already been flashing glimpses of a joker across the back of his left hand, a snake around his neck, six-pointed stars on his knees – _that_ one having taken a bit of work to look casual – and a black widow spider climbing up a cobweb on his right elbow, but now he showed off the full-force of his ink and the array of love-bites, bite-marks and scratches he’d gotten the night before.

The one man outright fainted just at the sight of more ink, without any regard to what any of it meant.

His grin went leering as he showed off _finally_ crossing one of the two final lines between him and Steve being _together_ , and _proud_ of it.

The fact that he had the Madonna and Child in the Orthodox tradition across his back, the double-headed eagle on his right upper arm, the sailing ship with white sails on his left upper arm, and seven-pointed stars on his collarbones were enough to make the four other recruits blanch _badly_.

 _Annoyingly_ , neither the doctors nor the recruiter seemed to recognize any of _these_ , and Bucky realized that he wasn’t going to fail.

It _pissed_ _him_ _off_ , and a glint of gold was in his eyes as he turned towards the other recruits, mentally calculating how long it would take to scare the five witless if they understood even a _fraction_ of his tattoos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #seven-pointed star – captain #snake around neck – drug addiction #double-headed eagle – Russian state symbol, denotes rage against the USSR # sailing ship with white sails – bearer does not engage in normal/traveling thief prone to escape attempts #spider in cobweb – spider climbing up is fully committed to the lifestyle #Madonna and Child – ‘my conscience is clean before my friends’ and ‘I will not betray’; been criminal since young #tiger – aggression towards police offer #bull – cruelty and rage; fighters who make the physical execution on orders #monk writing in book with quill pen – a “scribe”, is dexterous with razor, knife or sharpened coin #joker – player of gambling games #rings – quick write up of crimes committed


	14. there's a new beginning;

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #brief mention of attempted sexual assault #quickly resolved

_The_ Солдат _had been on Mission when he’d seen a newspaper._

_It was the headline for what he’d done in Belfast on August 8, 1971: **British Soldier shot dead by Irish Republican Army**._

_He’d_ remembered _the significance of that date, as the date he’d been born even if he didn’t know how old he was supposed to be. Maybe he couldn’t remember all that many details of who he’d been Before, but he’d begun to_ remember _._

 _The_ Солдат _had shrugged over that date, because it didn’t mean anything to_ them _. The date that had mattered to them was sometime in early January, 1944, when they’d broken him and created_ them _from the remains._

 _Because_ Captain America _had crashed the_ Valkyrie _into the ice to stop a missile from hitting_ New York City _on_ New Year’s Day _._

 _He didn’t know_ why _that particular piece of information had_ broken _him, but it still made his heart_ hurt _. He didn’t know what Captain had meant to_ him _, just that he had._

_It reminded him that New Year’s Day was Steve’s birthday._

~

Steve counted down every moment of the six weeks Bucky would be in basic before he would come back home before shipping out to the front.

He _hated_ being alone in their apartment, and absolutely _despised_ that Bucky would only be back for one night before being gone for an indeterminate amount of time after until the war was over. It was _terrible_ , and it was hard to remind himself that each day he survived against the odds was a victory when he didn’t have the constant reminder of _what_ to fight for.

Instead, he’d found himself drifting and trying to not plan what would go to who for when he passed, but unable to help himself when speckling had turned into droplets. As it was, he’d already started boxing up the few extra things they had, and the majority of Bucky’s things, to take over to the Barnes in preparation for the time after Bucky was off to war in case he _did_ die suddenly to make it easier for the Barnes.

Steve had _no_ intention of telling Bucky that not only had the Morrigan started coming closer, but she’d flown close enough to _touch_ twice in the last two weeks since this new moon, and the third time was inevitable for the near future when he came back from basic in the next couple of days. The first time she’d come so close had been the very day that Bucky had left, and her message was _abundantly_ clear: he might survive to see Bucky back from basic, but not much past that.

He was _determined_ that Bucky never find out his days were numbered to nearly single-digits, and that the _moment_ Bucky shipped out, he’d be following him overseas with or without permission.

( _He hadn’t been very sure he’d even survive that trip, or that even if he managed to get overseas, that he’d be able to get into a position that could mean he could_ make sure _that Bucky made it home to Brooklyn even if_ he _didn’t, or that Bucky would even need the help, at all or before his health caught up to him, but he’d had to_ try _._ )

With less than a week left, Steve was _determined_ that he would make the best of the probably last time that he would see his jerk, and considering that the money he’d been saving would be no good to him soon, he could make Bucky’s last night in Brooklyn something to remember.

At the very least, he could get Bucky some sweets – because the jerk didn’t have just _a_ sweet tooth – and as many packs of Lucky Strikes as he could get, from the grocer since Bucky likely hadn’t had a single piece of candy the entire time at basic _and_ had been forced to go cold turkey after smoking at least once a day for _years_ for the last five weeks.

Turning the corner just a street away from the grocer had been when he’d heard a fight.

( _Bucky had_ not _believed him when he’d said that he’d_ almost _walked past a fight without getting involved, giving him this dubious look full of so much skepticism they must have been able to see it in Berlin._ )

Or more accurately, he heard a short scuffle then a woman say _very clearly_ , “Back off fucker! Leave me alone!”

He hadn’t really been able to catch much of the scuffle, but he had heard the distress in her voice and he hadn’t been able to keep walking. He’d gone into the little side street – one of the rare ones in the area that he _didn’t_ know – and seen a much larger man trying to man-handle a considerably smaller woman with strawberry blonde hair, his hands groping at her clothes trying to remove them.

He saw the woman see him, see his smaller frame and how _little_ of a chance he stood actually managing to help, and how she tried to get him to _leave_ with her eyes, but he ignored that as he yelled out as loud as he could, “Hey!! Leave the lady alone!!!”

The man turned his head to see who would dare to yell at him, then just laughed at the sight of a scrawny little punk with blazing blue eyes that couldn’t weigh much more than a hundred pounds sopping wet, “You can have your turn with this whore after me, kid.”

(Steve rather thought his response made it _obvious_ he hadn’t spent _any_ time in Brooklyn, because otherwise he would have heard of him; of how he’d been _born_ angry, and would yell through his wheezing lungs loud enough your ma and God could hear as he told you _exactly_ what you’d done _wrong_. That he would have known how if they didn’t heed him, and thought he could win in the then-inevitable fistfight that came after the yelling – that Steve could admit they weren’t even _wrong_ to think that, since he only won his fights once in a blue moon – then you’d end up dealing with _Bucky_ _Barnes_.

Bucky, who had a _reputation_ spanning through Brooklyn, Hell’s Kitchen, _and_ Harlem.

It had only taken nearly fifteen years, and it honestly annoyed him a little that _he_ wasn’t enough of a deterrent on his own, but there weren’t exactly _many_ who’d risk picking a fight with him knowing they’d soon be dealing with a pissed-off _Bucky_.)

If the man had known who he was messing with, maybe he would have expected how Steve rushed forward and kicked at the back of his knee before he started to fall forward, releasing his grip on the woman to catch himself. Maybe he would have expected that once he was low enough for Steve to reach, that he would be getting a punch to the _face_.

But he hadn’t.

Steve hurriedly grabbed the woman by the hand and started to pull her away, “That’s not-!” Only to be cut off as his shoulder was grabbed, yanking him back as a fist made contact with his face from temple to mouth and only narrowly managed to not re-break his nose.

He crumbled as stars burst in his vision, the world swimming and he lost a moment or two.

( _He’d remember later, snippets of where he’d stared in a daze at the woman he’d tried to help, and seen her get the room to punch the other man in the balls and_ drop _him, “I_ told _you to back the fuck off, Freddie. Leave me_ alone _, or I’ll do_ worse _next time you try to do shit.”_ )

The woman stepped over where the other man laid cradling between his legs, casually coming a hair’s breadth from just stepping on his face with her heels, before coming over to him and holding out a hand, “Thanks for the assist. I’m Virginia Potts, and you are?”

He’d tried to smile as his gaze had gotten caught on her wedding ring, but he’d tasted blood and there was a little bit of a disconnect between his thoughts and actions, he really wasn’t sure if he actually managed.

“It waz na prab’em, Ma’am. ‘m Steve Rogers.”

Steve blinked and lost a little more time before hearing voices coming their way, “You think Freddie managed get that dame? He promised us a fun time with her.”

Virginia grabbed his hand and pulled him after her, leading him to an apartment block and into one of its rooms with her.

He wheezed over his knees, trying to breathe as he patted at his pockets for his asthma smokes only to realize he’d left them on his bedside table. She made an anxious noise as she fluttered around him, “Are you okay??”

Steve struggled to take slow deep breathes as he held up a thumb, even if the world was still spinning a bit and he was pretty sure he’d gotten a concussion. He didn’t fail to see the dubious look that got him, but she didn’t press before she started going through her drawers.

“I don’t mean to be rude, particularly since you did help me, but this place doesn’t allow male visitors.” Continuing when he just looked at her uncomprehendingly, not quite getting what that was supposed to be important about that, “My husband volunteered for the war, but with him overseas, my mother didn’t want me staying in this neighborhood by myself so she insisted I stay in this ladies’ henhouse if I didn’t want to move home and _hell no_ for that. I’m not the _only_ married woman here, but most of the women here are incredibly single and the matron is _very_ much the sort to start hysterically asking if you’re pregnant if you are with a man alone for more than a minute. So, for the sake of my peace – and sanity; Janet really is a good person, I swear, but I spent ten minutes with my _husband_ on his last leave and had to listen to her hysterics for the next _two_ weeks – I need you to look like you _belong_ in this henhouse.”

That was when she pulled out a pale-yellow dress that was clearly just a touch too small for her, and Steve _understood_ where she’d been leading with all that finally. He just blinked at her as she continued, “It would be best to wear this home, because I doubt those men will look kindly upon you once Freddie comes around and tells them about you helping me, and I really would rather you _stay alive_ after your gallant rescue.”

(He totally blamed the concussion on his lack of reaction, _not_ that he liked the look of the dress.

It was a nice dress though; long hemmed with a pleat-like look below the waist, and a sort of ruffle at the collarbones that flattered small busts, in a particular shade that would make his almost-sickly-pale skin just look milky and his dishwater blonde hair look more like gold.)

He _remembered_ being almost able to hear Bucky snicker in his ear at how for one reason or another, he kept ending up in a dress, and made a mental note to smack Bucky later – but not tell that jerk _anything about this_.

( _He_ remembered _following through on that, greeting Bucky then smacking him on the arm. Bucky had been confused then._

 _Steve_ still _had_ no fucking idea _how Bucky found out, but Bucky_ had _found out, and he’d teased him about it while he’d been on circuit in a letter; that it was a pity he hadn’t seen his best girl in the yellow dress he’d gotten after rescuing a firecracker. Bucky’s information network had never failed him though, nor been limited to just New York City – it was just that_ New York CIty _had kept_ no _secrets from him by the time he’d been drafted._

 _He_ distinctly _remembered Bucky bursting into more than one debriefing for a mission during the war where Peggy hadn’t been able to gather much intel before they had to go in, and yet Bucky managed to get base layouts and personnel numbers. It would have been a little terrifying if it hadn’t been so useful._ )

Steve missed his opportunity to protest and mean it, so he just sighed as he held out a hand for the dress. Starting to pull his shirt from his trousers when he saw that she hadn’t immediately turned away, and turned _red_.

She’d raised an eyebrow, “You are far from the first man I’ve seen shirtless.” – then turned around as he started to reach for his pants – “Nor the first one I’ve seen naked. I _am_ married.”

(Despite what she’d think, he wasn’t really _that_ embarrassed to be seen naked. He’d become a little desensitized to an audience thanks to Bucky, but unlike his friend, he still _had_ a sense of shame so some of the color in his cheeks was a genuine sense of embarrassment.

Most of the color hadn’t been out of modesty, but for how he was wearing feminine undergarments – sans a brassier, which he reserved for when he wore a dress as a defining part of being _Stephanie_ – and that he hadn’t wanted her to see that while he’d worn a man’s shirt and trousers today, he’d been otherwise dressed as a dame did.

If anyone had asked – and he hoped to _God_ no one but _Bucky_ ever _found_ _out_ – he would have claimed part of that was just habit since more days than not saw him in a dress for work. This day no exception.)

He’d slipped the dress on, and from long practice, had known exactly how to pull his too thin knobby shoulders back to push out his chest without aggravating his back, and how to tighten his belt around his waist to give the illusion of a flair of hips, then adjusting the collar to hide his Adam’s apple. He couldn’t do much without his make-up about his strong jaw, nor do more than fluff out short hair for extra volume and pulling out a hairclip he’d left in his pocket after nearly going out in public with it in after changing into pants.

Steve had hoped that she wouldn’t comment on how he’d been wearing dark stockings beneath his pants, just glad that he’d still been wearing them because this hid his thin, nearly absent leg hair and gave his legs a more feminine look beneath the dress, as he stepped back into his shoes.

He’d chewed a little on his bottom lip to give it the appearance of rouge as the final touch to make his scrawny male frame look almost feminine enough that it could pass on first, and even second look.

(He’d gotten _good_ at this after some six, almost seven years, so unless the dress got soaked or pulled tight around his groin, he _would_ pass as just a bit of a butch-looking tomboy.)

Virginia had looked thoughtfully at him for a moment – and he didn’t notice her gaze catching on the ring around his neck next to his rosary, or his Claddagh, and _understanding_ better than _he_ did _why_ he knew how to dress as a woman – but hadn’t said anything before helping him leave unnoticed, and he’d escaped back to his apartment after a quick stop at the grocer’s for his original errand. Once back home, he’d changed out of the dress and carefully put it away.

( _He’d intended to find her again, and try to give it back after he’d washed it, but then Bucky had come back for leave and he’d met Dr. Erskine, and he’d never gotten a chance._ )

Thinking of Bucky as he had, of knowing Bucky was _almost_ back, it made him _miss him more_.

It had been a comfort to change into Bucky’s clothes.

(It had been like a hug from Bucky, and he’d closed his eyes as he’d wrapped arms around himself and let Bucky’s scent fool him into thinking Bucky had come back a little early as a surprise.)

It had been enough that he’d gone back out to see if he could go looking for a way overseas, legally.

(He had no compunction of stowing away, but he probably should at least _try_ doing it legally.)

He’d been blindsided as he rounded a corner, knocked down flat and his vision had done more than just swim or spin, he’d lost minutes between walking and finding himself staring up at the sky, dazed, his nose bleeding and an angry man kicking at him.

Steve had curled up against the beating until there was a pause, then he’d rushed to scramble up and away, scuttling backwards unsteadily because he’d tried and fallen back down, half over a garbage can. He’d grabbed the garbage can lid and held it up in front of him defensively, dazed and struggling to stay standing but refusing to stay down.

( _He_ should _have stayed down; fighting would have just meant more pain, for longer._

 _It had been hard to breathe, he’d tasted blood on his tongue, and his vision had been greying. Then the Morrigan had swooped down to perch on the fence behind him, just_ waiting _, and it had been official – his time had come._

 _But Bucky had been coming back from basic soon, so he’d_ had _to hold on long enough to say_ good-bye _, even if meant it was a slow death instead of a quick accident._ )

Steve had hefted the heavy metal lid up like a shield, giving a bloody smile and saying – “I can do this all day.” – before running at Freddie, who after his vision cleared up just a _little_ , he’d _recognized_ from earlier, and hefted the metal up above his head to catch the fists coming down before he managed to get one good punch to the other man’s junk.

While the man had fallen down, curled up around where he’d been punched twice today, Steve had struggled to breathe, one arm curling around his aching ribs as he coughed and blood dripped from his lips to the ground.

He’d been _dying_ , he’d known it then and there, and even if he knew Bucky was too far away to come to his aid, he’d called out before he could stop himself.

(Because, if he was going to die here in this alleyway, then he’d wanted to see Bucky one last time.)

“ _Bucky-!_ ”

He yelled it as loud as he could, because it didn’t _matter_ that he _knew_ Bucky wasn’t close enough to actually hear him, Bucky had _never_ failed to be there when he’d found himself in a fight that he couldn’t win on his own, and he couldn’t help but think he would even now.

(Bucky had _told_ him of his _oh-my-God-Steve-NO!_ sense, of how he could sense when Steve was making checks that his body couldn’t cash and would come running to help. That if Steve but called, he’d be there as quick as be to be his back-up, and not a _rescue_ , because Steve was _proud_ and even if he occasionally wore dresses, he wasn’t a _damsel_.)

He _remembered_ that Bucky had always liked to joke that while he had a _fantastic_ sense of direction for being able to navigate the twisting mess of a maze that masqueraded as the streets of New York City without problem, he had an even _better_ sense of Steve-direction. That like how other men could tell where North was without looking at the sun – Bucky had been smug as he said that was _easy_ – he was _special_ , and could say where _he_ was.

(Like Steve was the polar north for Bucky.)

The other man had recovered, and Steve had barely managed to get the shield up and him full-body behind it before he was bringing his fists down on him.

(He’d known _why_ Bucky had told him all that, because if Steve wasn’t about to be laid out flat on the ground, Bucky would let him fight his own battles by _himself_ , until he called for him.)

Steve had never doubted that Bucky would _be there_ before, because Bucky didn’t make false claims about things like this.

(Not that he didn’t doubt Bucky about _other_ claims. He hadn’t forgotten the weird looks Bucky had given the neighbors down the street from the Barnes for _years_ , and how he’d never quite stop muttering about them.

 _I’m tellin’ ya, Stevie, their devil-worshipers! Buying_ rats _! They should be buying_ cats _like the rest of the god-fearing world!_ )

He was knocked to the ground, losing his grip on his make-shift shield.

(He could finally admit that _maybe_ that Bucky had just wanted for him call for him, because it would be the closest that he would ever come to _admitting_ that once and a while, he didn’t _have_ to do it all on his own. That he could rely on _Bucky_ to always be there for him, even when he had nothing and no one else.)

Freddie had just raised a foot to go back to kicking him, when there was a dark blur flying at him with a dark _snarl_ that barely sounded _human_ , “Get the _fuck_ off Steve!”

Steve was dazed, hardly able to breathe and yet he smiled because _Bucky had come_. He’d wanted to laugh if he’d just had the air in his lungs, because Bucky had _come back_.

“Pick on someone your own size, douchebag!!”

The Morrigan gave him this impeccably _peeved_ look that _again_ , she’d been denied, as Bucky beat up Freddie.

( _Bucky had never_ told _him about how he’d follow him around when his pride got the better of him because Bucky’s mouth had run off ahead of him, watching in case he got in trouble so he could help if it was needed. He’d never_ told _him about his habit of checking every alleyway he passed to see if he was there, being beaten up, or that he’d managed to enlist half of Brooklyn to send someone for him if he was at work and Steve had gotten into a fight._

 _Steve had known though. Bucky had gotten better at his stealth over the years, but he’d not been as inconspicuous as he thought in the beginning. And some of the neighborhood had told him of Bucky’s demands, because they’d found it funny, like Bucky was trying to be some sort of guardian angel – but the joke had been on_ them _; Steve had always_ known _Bucky was his_ avenging _angel._ )

Steve didn’t deny that there was some vicious satisfaction and admiring happening as he watched the one-sided fight as he finally caught his breath, even if his vision was still a little off-kilter and they were more blurs than _people_.

The satisfaction because Bucky _never_ failed to be there when he truly needed. Vicious, because Freddie was learning what the whole of Brooklyn had learned by the time that they were fifteen – fuck with one of them, the other _will_ pound the offender _into the ground_.

The admiration, because watching Bucky beat up those that would seriously hurt him or worse was very _attractive_.

(One of the most attractive things about Bucky, near the top of his top thirty things that he found _attractive_ about Bucky, right there next to how Bucky could pick him up and carry him around without a sweat, was Bucky defending him.)

It was while he was _admiring_ the feral grace that was Bucky _fighting_ that he saw a man throw an empty beer bottle at the back of Bucky’s head.

Steve chucked his shield at the projectile without thought, then didn’t stay _still_ long enough to see the garbage lid knock the bottle off-course to slam into the brick wall to Bucky’s right _before_ he was launching himself with all the fury in his small body at the man.

Steve _remembered_ how _beautiful_ the surprise on the other man’s face had been as he tackled the other man to the ground.

( _Bucky_ had _always called him fifty pounds of rage in a ten-pound paper bag, and no one was ever prepared or braced to take the weight of something they though wouldn’t make them blink turning out to hit like a truck, against their throat, stomach, knees, and/or_ balls. _Every pointy and sharp part of him used to_ full _effect as he fought_ dirty _and made it_ hurt _._ )

It had been almost as beautiful as the _feral_ look on Bucky’s formally neatly groomed face, wisps of dark hair escaping its slicked back look to flutter in front of his dark eyes turned golden, as he was gently pulled off the man, kicking and snarling, fists still swinging to try and give the downed man a second shiner to complete his look.

(He imagined that he hadn’t looked any less feral, spitting out Gaelic curses before giving twin birds once he’d realized that Bucky wasn’t going to let him down to take a pound of flesh in compensation.)

Bucky had made sure to keep a hold on the back of his shirt as he’d nudged the downed man with his nice and clean military shoes, “Get the fuck out of here, before I let this damn punk loose to finish the job.”

He _remembered_ thinking that the man was _lucky_ that he’d been so _angry_ that he’d forgotten to pull his switchblade until Bucky had already pulled him off.

He _remembered_ the dark appreciation that had flashed across Bucky’s face at seeing the other man run away from _him_ , leaving Freddie behind without a look back. Even if the fighting-flush on Bucky’s cheeks had distracted him from seeing the possessive appreciation that had come up with it at seeing Steve in _his_ too-big clothes.

Bucky had looped one arm around his skinny shoulders as he led them away from the alley, squeezing just a smidgen too tight as if to remind them both that the other was still _there_ , “Dammit, Steve, I mean, really? Any time I’m gone for more than five minutes, you go and pick fights. It makes me think sometimes that you _like_ getting punched.”

( _He’d missed then, the older man that had been watching them contemplatively, and hadn’t realized that Dr. Erskine had known_ exactly _what sort of person he was choosing as his_ good man _. That he hadn’t asked for a saint, and hadn’t_ expected _him to be one._ )

Bucky had sighed when he’d just puffed out his chest, jaw set, “He was trying to force a dame earlier. I stepped in, and then BAM! She laid him out flat. He just recognized me from earlier. I didn’t pick _that_ fight.”

That last part got him a quiet scoff, “Could have run away though, don’t think I don’t see that he’d worked you over good before I got here.”

( _He hadn’t seen how Bucky’s eyes had narrowed and a dark look crossed his face, but he hadn’t needed to. He knew that Bucky had thought of what_ he _would have done if he’d been the one to come to Virginia’s aid, and he’d_ known _it wouldn’t have ended just with Freddie curled up in a ball on the ground._

 _He’d_ known _that if Bucky ever came across Freddie again, he would follow through with what he’d thought of then, because a man like that wouldn’t be deterred for forever and he had_ sisters.

 _Bucky never did tell him that he_ did _come across Freddie later, in a_ foul _mood._

 _Just like how Steve never did tell him that when he’d found out about Freddie’s sudden_ disappearance _later, he’d known what had happened and had just said nothing. Not when it had been easy to imagine Becca, Ana, Evie in Virginia’s place, and what might have happened if he hadn’t distracted Freddie long enough for her to get out of where she’d been cornered against a wall._ )

He’d returned Bucky’s scoff with _feeling_ , “Once you start running, you don’t stop.”

That had gotten him a long-suffering sigh before being pulled even closer, and he had to match his stride or trip over Bucky’s _stupid_ long legs. He’d taken the extra support without complaint even as Bucky gave dirty looks at anyone that looked at them, “Maybe you didn’t _pick_ that fight, then, but you couldn’t just leave the bullies alone, could ya?”

( _Steve_ remembered _that he’d seen some of those Bucky glared at pale at the sight of him, and if possible, cross to the other side of the street for a wide berth. How there was naked fear in their eyes when he would flash the ring tattoos on his hands, telling them of his affiliation even if they couldn’t see the rest of the tattoos – that he’d put on Bucky’s skin_ himself _– across his chest, shoulders, arms, and knees._ )

Steve didn’t throw off Bucky’s arm and he could practically feel Bucky puff out his chest some more at it. Not answering that question, because they both knew the answer: _no_.

( _Steve_ remembered _Bucky once saying – not to him, but to Peggy after Azzano in a crash-course of ‘Steve-handling’ that he probably_ should _have been offended over – how it was hard to balance his pride in Steve and the urge to lecture him over picking fights, and sometimes it didn’t matter how well he’d walk that fine line, Steve’s Catholic Guilt would make him hear lecture before he even got the_ chance to _lecture._

 _He’d known what Bucky had been doing well before then, but he’d never properly appreciated it because he’d been_ unable _to just let bullies go unchallenged. Instead, he’d just worked hard to put things in his favor for those fights; years of prowling Brooklyn meaning that he came across fewer and fewer bullies after it_ got around _that he would fight like an angry weasel out of a bag with no compunction about fighting dirty when someone else started it. He’d gotten to point that by Pearl Harbor that most of his fights were scuffles that Bucky didn’t even get a chance to do more than catch the last moments of or see the aftermath, before they’d realized_ who _they were fighting. He’d worked_ hard _to only be able to tell Bucky of the fights that would make the other man_ proud _of him._

 _Bucky had never told that part of that had been because he’d made sure to introduce_ his _fists to the ones that had lost to Steve but_ would _go after him again. That the more damage Steve took, the less likely any of those bullies would have been able to limp away under their own power – and that_ fear _in people’s eyes towards him had been because he’d left more than a few with a broken leg if Steve had struggled to breath after he normally was able to catch his breath._

 _That Bucky just let the little shit think that he’d managed to cut back on his fighting because he’d struck the fear of Steve in them, and not because a monster bayed for blood whenever_ Steve _came back too bloody and hurting._ )

They’d both known Bucky had always known all about Steve’s fights – especially the ones where he didn’t call for Bucky’s aid – but that he just played ignorant for Steve’s pride. And he _made_ it his business to know, so once Steve (inevitably) got into a fight that he couldn’t win alone, he could just swoop in like it was a _coincidence_ that he was there.

Or that they’d both known it made things easier for Bucky to be able to swoop in _before_ he should probably go to the hospital to get checked out, if he just _acted_ like he was being sneaky. Even if he hadn’t pulled anything substantial over Bucky since they were nine.

That Bucky acted like he _was_ sneaky sometimes, was because he was under the impression that Steve would go out and learn new, _better_ tactics.

(He’d already had the perfect role model for _sneaky_ in Bucky, and whatever he might have wanted to learn about going unnoticed, about sneaking in and out of places, feather-footed and unfathomable, he didn’t need to look any further than _Bucky_ for examples.)

Bucky had been the one to teach him to get caught in little lies to hide the bigger ones, to stick to the letter of the question instead of the spirit so that he could lie to people’s faces about the _important_ things they had to hide.

(Like the fact that they _could_ have lived in places _other_ than a queer neighborhood, and they hadn’t been _that_ poor after Stephanie had started working as a nurse, and Bucky had joined the Bratva. They _could_ have moved into much better neighborhoods, could have even moved onto the street the Barnes lived on.

They’d _chosen_ not to, and that had been one of the biggest lies of all – and one no one had ever questioned.)

( _Steve_ remembered _that he’d figured out his own tell of shifting to the right when lying long before his mother had died, and he’d never squashed that tell for Bucky. Partially, because like the_ sneaky _, he’d never seen the point of using it any more than necessary. Partially, because if he’d proven any more adept at all that, Bucky would have figured out the_ big _secrets that he’d kept from him._

 _That he’d always thought he’d managed to take into the ice with him, but Bucky had been Bucky so he’d never been_ sure _._ )

After a long moment, Bucky dropped his arm from his shoulder even if he didn’t go more than a step or two away.

( _Bucky had always been_ very _vocal_ _over how if he let Steve wander too far away, then Steve’s natural ability to find and attract trouble went into overdrive._

More _so after Peggy hadn’t been able to not have him sent on a mission separate from the Howling Commandos – just_ once _, not long after Azzano, and she was successful against such demands every_ other _time – and Bucky had come back to see what felt like half of France’s country-side in flames, James staring dead-eyed at the destruction that had followed them walking in an ambush set for_ them _before turning towards him with_ Steve punched a tank _, followed by Jim loudly telling him of how Steve had picked up_ three different _Hydra agents and thrown them_ bodily _away._ )

His hand sliding down his back to grasp one of his belt loops and lightly grope at his panty-covered ass – because Bucky would never fail to be _Bucky_ , and he’d _never_ passed up the opportunity to get his hands all over Steve at every chance – in the process before Steve hip-checked him because he’d been too _quiet_.

Bucky was frowning as he’d paused, cutting Steve’s next step off with how Bucky’s grip on one of his belt loops tightened, holding him in place as he bent down to pick up a slip of paper that had fallen out of Steve’s pocket in the scuffle.

“Buck?”

It got crushed it in his hand as he realized what it was; proof that Steve had tried to enlist a fourth time while he was gone.

“So, now you’re from Paramus?” Steve could see him try to be nonchalant about it, but Bucky’s couldn’t seem to help the narrow eyes and thinned lips, and repeated the same statement he’d made for attempt two and three, “You do know it’s illegal to lie on an enlistment form, don’t you?”

Steve _tried_ to match his attempt for nonchalance, because he didn’t regret it even if there was a growing feeling of guilt because Bucky did _not_ look happy at him trying again, shrugging before trying to redirect the conversation from one of their most-worn fights, “You got your orders?”

Bucky was quiet for a moment, just looking at him, before he answered, giving a tired little smirk as he saluted with a shadow of sass, “Sergeant James Barnes of the 107th Infantry, shipping out for England first thing tomorrow.”

Neither of them knew quite what to say to that, or what they could say. Not with how Steve had _known_ that Bucky wouldn’t be back for long before shipping out, but just a night didn’t leave them much time.

Bucky sighed, reaching out to ruffle his hair, “Come on, man. My last night. Gotta get you cleaned off; I can smell you from here.”

Steve raised an arm to his face, then recoiled at the smell, and Bucky had laughed. Even if there had still been a tightness to Bucky’s eyes, a tired look in them for their never-ending fight, there had also been a soft edge to Bucky’s grin as he’d looked at him. Steve had struggled to not melt into his shoes like the Wicked Witch at the sight, because maybe it was just a reprieve over the fight, but it was also Bucky absolving him of some of the guilt he felt for trying _again_ despite _knowing_ Bucky’s opinion on the matter.

“Where we going Buck?”

It would have taken a better man than him to resist how his lips turned up to match Bucky’s.

( _He should have made it clear to Bucky that he could have cared less about the destination, as long as they went together. He would have gone anywhere with Bucky, no matter where._ )

“The future.”

He’d laughed because that was a non-answer if he’d ever heard one, and it had lightened the mood, before he had elbowed Bucky in the side with his sharp elbow, “ _Where_ , you jerk? We’re already in the future.”

Bucky had laughed as he’d made a show of getting away from him, like his elbows _could_ have actually _hurt_ him, then picked up the newspaper he’d dropped to tackle Freddie. On the front page was the fairgrounds with a headline that read: _1942 World Exhibition of Tomorrow_.

“The Stark Expo, you cheeky _punk_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #proto-tiny turtle of justice


	15. the start of what comes after.

_The Солдат had just killed a man in Budapest, when a woman with a shaved head and androgynous features dressed long fire-lit orange eastern robes stepped out of the shadows._

_They immediately swung their gun around to face her, because they’d been_ alone _aside from their victim and the only door was behind them and yet she’d managed to slip inside this room from the_ side _. Her gaze wasn’t on his gun though, casually raising one hand and concentric circles of blazing orange a shade brighter than her clothes sprung up around it, and they felt their body_ freeze _in place, as she knelt next to the man and plucked something out of his inside suit jacket pocket._

 _Their lip curled and then the circles_ shattered.

 _Their grin was vicious behind their mask, as he watched her blink green eyes in surprise before he stalked forward and pulled the trigger once, twice, thrice right in her face. They snarled silently when more blazing circles sprung up between them, their bullets caught harmlessly in front of her, made impotent by something that a part of them knew was_ magic _._

_They’d seen something similar with someone with unearthly green eyes once._

_The_ Солдат _had been just_ waiting _to meet someone that would make conventional weapons useless; had been_ preparing _for it since they’d pieced together parts of that ghost of a memory of the dark-haired skeletal woman. As such, they didn’t have more than a second of surprise before they abandoned the gun and went for her with a balled up left fist, not giving her the_ space _to cast her magic._

 _She frowned as her blazing circles spun around and around their fist, snap-cracking over and over as she made new ones on the heels of others breaking as they_ forced _their way past her magic centimeter by centimeter._

_“Who are you?”_

_Then she moved closer, trying to smack their arm up and out before slamming her fist into their chest, and surprisingly, they_ moved _. No one had_ made _them move like this in a long time, longer than they could_ remember.

 _It only bought her a foot of space, but she closed it in a heartbeat, hands smacking and pushing and trying to take them_ down _. Then out of the corner of his eye, they could see the world_ shift _before snapping back into place, whatever magic she was using abruptly_ failing _._

 _Her frown deepened, “_ What _are you?”_

 _The_ Солдат _bared their teeth at her for that, but didn’t_ say _anything._

 _A moment later, she was stepping back, and now they could_ see _the world_ shift _, move like she’d tried before, and then she was gone without a trace and their head_ hurt _like they’d just witnessed something the brain was not meant to understand._

 _Then_ something _had snapped into place in his head, and they had grinned with too many teeth for their mouth because the woman hadn’t been_ wrong _to ask_ what _they were._

 _They_ laughed, _because they might_ look _human, but they_ weren’t _. Not with how they could_ feel _scales slide into place along their spine now that the woman had_ awoken _the monster beneath their skin, within their_ blood _._

 _Hydra had put it to sleep with the ice, had made him forget that he’d challenged_ gods _and not been smote for it, but they’d been playing with_ fire _trying to keep him chained and they_ would _get_ burned _._

~

Steve imagined that in another time and place, Bucky would have pulled him out of that alleyway, left him to get cleaned up as he went out to find them a couple of dates.

They didn’t live in _that_ world though, so instead Bucky had dragged him home, fussed over him, came very close to demanding that they skip the Expo in favor of getting Steve checked into the hospital and Steve had dug his heels in and _refused_ because Bucky was shipping out in the morning and he wanted Bucky to have _fun_ , so he’d gotten cleaned up and then they’d left for the Expo.

Even from a distance, they had been able to see that the Expo took up the entire Fairgrounds, looking like something out a science-fiction novel with huge, futuristic buildings alongside smaller tents and pavilions. They’d both paused just outside to watch a monorail silently glide from one side of the Expo to the other carrying passengers, as people of all ages wandered around, eyes wide to take it all in.

Steve led the way towards the Modern Marvels pavilion not far in, but they had hardly got anywhere before a couple of ladies had sidled up on either side of Bucky, wrapping an arm around each of his elbows like they were his dates, “Hey, soldier boy, want some company for the evening?”

He _remembered_ the flash of anger that he’d felt at being shunted to the side _again_.

Back when Bucky had used to go on dates what felt like every night, Bucky had used to try and get him to come on double dates with him, but he’d stopped coming with because it had been obvious they’d accepted a date with him out of pity, out of promise of this making them look _good_ with Bucky. He’d tried at first to stay until the end, but at some point, Bucky never failed to end up showing more attention to him than the girls and they’d left or he’d left, until the double dates had _stopped_.

It had been a couple of years since then, but the feeling of always being second-best and never-enough came back like an old friend he’d rather never see again.

The feeling faded in face of how Bucky was still wearing his Claddagh on his pinkie – proclaiming to the world that someone had a claim on him – and thus, they should have _known_ that since Bucky was awkwardly scratching at his face with that hand, all but _flashing_ it in their faces. Steve’s mouth started moving before he realized it, “I’m sorry, ladies, but he’s _taken_. My sister, Steph, is his _fiancée_. She would be here tonight, but she begged off after a long day of final certifications to become a nurse with the military.”

The girls had backed off with a huff but Bucky had been smirking, “Sorry ladies, but _his sister_ likes to share even less than Stevie does.” – his half-lidded eyes alight with something he couldn’t (wouldn’t) name, as he ‘played along’ even after they’d left, tone pointed with _intent_ – “She has a beautiful ring that fits on her dainty hand but instead prefers to wear on a chain around her neck as to not get in the way at work; a promise from our childhood that I’ve _always_ intended to keep.”

He _remembered_ the fiery Irish blush that had heated his cheeks despite how cold it had been that evening.

Even if Bucky was just _playing along_ for the sake of anyone listening, this was the closest they’d ever gotten to actually _talking_ about what was between them – and he found himself being bold after hearing _always intended to keep_.

(He’d also been a little shit, and maybe he _meant_ it for himself and just couldn’t say it, but he _had_ also just claimed Stephanie as his sister aloud instead of just letting people make assumptions over her name, and that meant _certain_ things. Things that let him make certain statements he hadn’t been able to on his own.)

He’d puffed out his chest and looked Bucky straight in his dark gypsy eyes, voice a challenge, “But that is the _gadjo_ way. Where is Steph’s necklace of coins? Your grandmother would be disappointed in not seeing somebody with your necklace around their neck at your age.”

Bucky had laughed loudly – too loudly because the people around them were looking their way now – before there had been a glitter in his eyes, an edge to his smile.

( _He’d thought about it after Bucky had fallen, when he’d found a half-finished string of coins from everywhere that they’d been in the war, intermixed among old pennies and Coke bottle caps._

 _Maybe they’d never named it, had never said three little words, but Bucky would have followed through with his intent. They would have married, even if never legally, when the war was over, in Jewish traditions, the Barnes way, Roma-style._ )

Then Bucky had nudged them through the crowd gathering for Stark talking about his newest invention, a flying car that normally would have had Bucky gushing over it – because Bucky _loved_ science-fiction and a flying car was straight out of the pages of his favorite books – to a shadowed spot on the edge of the crowd, his large hand a comfortable weight on the back of his neck, his body a familiar warmth at his back.

Bucky had boxed him in against the wall, leaning over him to hide them from curious eyes as his voice went quiet so no one else would hear even if no one else would have understood anyway, head bowing close to put them almost nose-to-nose, “ _Now_ , what was this about my best girl signing up to be a nurse for the war effort?”

He _remembered_ that Bucky’s dark eyes had been flecked with pure gold, intense and ultra-focused in the way only a marksman could be on their target as he’d stared him down, “No women have been drafted – and I doubt they ever _will_ – so that means _somebody_ volunteered for the war effort while I was away. So, what’s this about _Steph_ volunteering?”

He _remembered_ how Bucky’s eyes had flickered down to Steve’s Adam’s apple as he’d nervously swallowed, because he’d lied about how far along that he was in the process, but it hadn’t been an _outright_ lie about getting certified to be sent overseas. He’d held Bucky’s gaze as he gave up the game (mostly) in favor of the truth, or part of it anyway.

“I failed enlistment over and over, Bucky, so _Steve_ will never be sent overseas. I won’t ever be, not least because I won’t survive through the first cold snap, let alone next winter, alone. Even if your ma already offered for me to move in your family because the next winter will be tough, it won’t be _enough_.”

(Saying that was the closest he’d ever come about talking with Bucky about his life expectancy, about how he was going to die _young_.)

A small, melancholy smile had curled his lips because _maybe_ the cold would be what _officially_ ended his life, but it would be his _mother’s ill_ that would be his end, really; Bucky didn’t need to know _that_ though, “I wanted to do some _good_ before that. I put in papers for Stephanie Rogers to become a nurse attached to the unit of her fiancée, with certification and approval with the military pending within the next couple of weeks.” – before standing up straighter, and standing toe-to-toe with Bucky – “One way or another, Bucky, _I’m following you_. We _promised_ ‘til the end of the line, and I’ll see to it that you make it home with me. The Morrigan will have a _fight_ on her hands if she thinks she can take _you_ without me. _Brooklyn_ knows this, and the _Old_ _Gods_ will _know_ this too.”

Bucky’s eyes had closed before he’d lowered his forehead to Steve’s, and was quiet for a moment.

( _Neither of them ever said it aloud, but_ home _had never been just Brooklyn to them;_ home _had been_ people _– had been_ a _person._ Wherever _they were, they’d always been at_ home _if they were_ together _._ )

Then he chuckled softly, his voice strained with a sense of defeat, “ _I’m with_ you _‘til the end of the line_ , you punk.” – then pulled back to ruffle his hair – “Only you, Stevie, would try to take on _gods_ and think you can _win_.”

( _Bucky never told him that_ he _already_ had _for Steve; having sent Death away_ seven _times by then._ )

Bucky had gestured an arm out into crowds behind him, face smiling while his eyes were sad, “Let’s glimpse the future first. The War can wait one night.”

(Leaving unspoken, but still _heard_ , “Because we have no future of our own to see.”)

Steve _remembered_ enjoying that night, even if had been colored with inevitable sorrow at knowing he would never see the sort of future promised here, and he’d watched Bucky more openly then he had ever dared before, knowing that this was likely to be the last time that he ever saw him.

Bucky was the one that led them towards the real star of the show, Stark Industries.

(It might have been called the World Exhibition of Tomorrow _officially_ , but it was an Expo made up mostly of Stark inventions, and primarily funded by Stark Industries to showcase their newest gadgets and gizmos coming out of the infamous millionaire inventor’s workshop, so Steve had heard it referred more by _Stark Expo_ than its official name.)

As they made their way further into the fair, they were drawn to a commotion off to the side, where the man himself – Howard Stark – was for once while in public without a beautiful woman on his arm, up on a raised platform next to a _very_ expensive luxury car.

He was giving some spiel about ‘gravity-reversion technology’ in the car and Steve didn’t much understand what that was supposed to be. From what he could understand, it was _supposed_ to negate the gravitational force placed upon an object and thus let it rise, but that sort of science wasn’t in his wheelhouse.

( _It had been Bucky’s._ Bucky _had loved the sciences, the logic and facts about how things worked._

 _He’d always liked cheesy science-fiction though, not for scientific accuracy, but for the possibility and potential for the future. Which had been a major reason for why he’d gotten on like a house and fire with Howard, because Bucky had_ ideas _that matched Howard’s, and it hadn’t_ mattered _that Howard’s inventions typically exploded the first few iterations, Howard had been able to bring Bucky’s science-fiction to_ life _past just a_ concept _._

 _Even as he’d been horrified by the planes Schmidt had loaded with bombs, a part of him had admired their strange shapes and thought Bucky would have_ loved _to see one in flight._ )

“What if I told you that, in a few short years, your car won’t even have to touch the ground at all?”

That got Stark some catcalls and some cheers, Bucky nearly vibrating in excitement next to him because a _flying_ car. Steve had dropped his face into his hands because a _car_ whose only limit would be the _sky_ , that was practically a wet dream for Bucky.

(It had been a _dream_ of Bucky’s to learn how to pilot a plane, and only the fact that for them, training came with the expectation that if – _when_ – war broke out, that he would have enlisted, and implied that if he hadn’t volunteered once it had, that he’d become among the first drafted, had kept him from getting his flight license.

Ana had signed up with the Women Air Service Pilots in his place though, so he’d learned the basics if unofficially, for _now_.)

Then Stark smiled and pulled a lever.

The car came off the ground, floating on its own with its wheels moved so they were parallel with the ground. The audience was loud with their _oohs_ and _aahs_ as they shuffled around, going closer to the stage. Bucky grinned _wide_ – showing off his sharp teeth – as his eyes went wide and bright with excitement, moving this way and that, bouncing on his toes and leaning around people trying to get a better view of _how_ the car managed to get off the ground and _stay_ off the ground.

Even with Bucky’s entire focus on the car, his arm still snaked out and pulled him close before he could get lost in the crowd when it tried to sweep him away – and before he could take a step towards the military recruitment poster that he’d just seen above the back of the crowd when it brought within his line of sight.

“You’re really going to do this _now_ , Stevie?”

The _way_ Bucky said that had Steve pulling his gaze back towards Bucky, his voice dead-quiet and flat, to see his jaw was tight and eyes dark with something only a step from _anger_ – _genuine_ anger. Then he deflated from where he’d started to raise his chin defiantly out of reflex at the _fight_ in Bucky’s voice, and gave a small shake of his head, because he hadn’t _meant_ to.

(It’d became a habit, to go towards a recruitment office, even if he didn’t always try to enlist then, to see if he’d get called in, like _persistence_ would mean that they’d just pass him on just to get rid of him. He’d even _known_ it was a bad habit, with Bucky getting drafted and him looking to follow _any_ way he could – the _only_ way he could see himself _succeeding_ in getting overseas with him – but he’d still done it. He’d done it and not regretted it.

With Bucky _here_ though, he’d never regretted one step away more.)

The tension drained out of Bucky, even if he wasn’t smiling anymore. The hold he’d had changed from catching him by his belt loop to an arm around his shoulders, keeping him close but not so tight that if he pulled away – made for the recruitment booth again – he wouldn’t slip out.

(Because he _was_ going to try again before the end of the night, they both _knew_ it, but the booth wasn’t going anywhere and it _was_ Bucky’s last night. It could wait an hour.)

The series of loud pops and a shower of sparks coming out of the wheel wells of Stark’s car had them turning their attention back to the stage just in time to see it drop back to the ground, shaking the platform with its weight.

“Well, I did say a _few years_ , didn’t I?” Howard stretched his arms out with a smile that said he’d be right back at this tomorrow.

( _It had been that smile that had made him initially like Howard, because Howard_ understood _the drive to continue_ despite _the odds, the_ impossibility _, the constant defeat, even if it was for something else. He didn’t give up on an idea, not completely, even when the rest of the world told him to give up_.

 _He thought it was because Howard_ recognized _that drive in him, that he hadn’t given more than a token protest about flying him out beyond enemy lines to get to Azzano._ )

Bucky had laughed then, and they’d gone on to explore some of Stark’s other inventions.

Seeing Bucky so excited by some fancy Stark tech – because Bucky had started _babbling_ about how futuristic some of the inventions they were seeing were, beyond even his favorite science-fiction not off-Earth, he’d been so _excited_ – had been one of his _best_ memories of the night.

(“ _Steve, Steve! This is the FUTURE! One day we’ll all be driving flying cars or using jet-packs, talking into portable phones, using ice-boxes that don’t need ice and quick meal-warmers without the stove!_ ”)

It didn’t mean that he couldn’t help going towards the one non-futuristic pavilion in the entire fair, when he saw it. The US Army recruitment booth was empty, because no one _else_ wanted to think about the war right now, but Steve couldn’t leave it even if he wanted to go back to Bucky.

( _Maybe_ he could get overseas as Stephanie, but that sort of secret wouldn’t work long-term.)

It had unequivocally been a _dick_ move to leave Bucky though, as he’d gotten up close to the flying car, trying to see _how_ it flew without getting _on_ the stage with Stark, but he’d _had_ to try again. Even if he’d regretted walking away from Bucky the _moment_ he did, he’d _had_ to _try_.

(He’d _had_ to keep trying until they got so desperate for men that they took even _him_ and got him across the Atlantic. Even if it meant going AWOL once they got him to the European front, he was _prepared_ for that, because there would be no force in any Hell – Catholic, Celtic, Jewish, or any _other_ sort – that would stop him from getting to Bucky.

He’d never _stop_ trying to get Bucky.

He _remembered_ thinking that even if he had to _single-handedly_ end the war to get Bucky _home_ , he _would_ have _done_ so, come hell or high water.)

Bucky found him before he went in to be denied for a fifth time.

(His _many_ ailments would keep him from getting the green light, but he’d _had_ to try because getting _to_ the war was his best chance of _surviving_ the war, lost in a crowd of the _dying_ because the Morrigan wouldn’t _find_ him on a _battlefield_.)

“You’re really going to do this here.”

He sounded _tired_ , as he stood next to him in front of the poster with one of the recruits’ faces left blank so that when looked upon, it was the viewer’s face there.

Steve was too short for more than the top of his head to be seen in the blank though.

“I’m going to try my luck.”

Steve _felt_ tired as he turned his head to look at Bucky, and saw the look on his face that would have scared off anyone but Steve, but was really Bucky just feeling _scared_ , even if his voice was harsh, “As who? ‘Steve from Ohio’? They’ll catch you. Or worse, they’ll actually _take you_.”

He said that like that was the worst possible outcome here, but Steve would rather die fighting beside Bucky then in his bed with Bucky thousands of miles away.

“This isn’t a back-alley scrap, Steve.”

( _Not until they were there, and unable to do anything_ but _fight did he realize that for Bucky, him going to war_ was _one of the worst possible outcomes, one that he’d seen come_ true _as back-alley bullies were just toothing puppies compared to the feral wolves of Hydra soldiers._ )

“It’s a war.”

“No,” Steve had never felt _more_ like an asshole than he did as Bucky’s face had shuttered with the realization that he’d lost this fight and Steve _would_ be trying to enlist _again_ , “It’s _the_ war. The war we _can’t_ lose.”

Because if Hitler _won_ , his concentration camps would be swelled with all those that he considered undesirable, with Bucky counted among the _undesirable_.

(Because he didn’t doubt that Bucky _would_ abandon a losing war to come _home_ , if it looked like Germany would _win_ , even if he wasn’t sure if the Nazis would be _able_ to capture him before he got back to New York.)

It was quiet between them because Steve _would_ keep trying to enlist no matter how many times he was turned down or how many fights he had with Bucky over it.

He took a step toward the tent, and Bucky caught him by the arm, before pulling him into a hug that lasted too long, and they shared a wry grin as they separated to say their good-byes _just in case_ , “Don’t do anything stupid until I get back, punk.”

Bucky jerking a thumb deeper into the Expo where a couple of food stands were setting up late to the party. Steve laughed because he could just barely see among them were fair treats like cotton candy, “How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you, jerk.” – and he knew Bucky had _seen_ that – “Don’t win the war ‘til I get there.”

Steve watched him reluctantly leave, disappearing into the crowd, before he walked inside the recruitment center.

~

 _The body was somewhere cold when the_ _Сол_ д _а_ т _woke, their breathe misting the air._

 _A red-haired girl, perhaps a teen, maybe nearly an adult or maybe just a child, they couldn’t quite tell considering that she was as small as Steve was in most of his memories with similar_ old _eyes. Every breathe, every motion, was made with the same graceful violence the body had been trained into – had always_ known _even before the Red Room had gotten their hands on them – and undeniably_ dangerous _._

 _The_ _Сол_ д _а_ т _looked at her and was_ proud _of their best student, the one he privately thought of as like a daughter since they’d been there since she’d taken her first steps and raised her into the best assassin the Red Room had, and who they called their_ _кровопийца_ _. All of her sisters were vicious, insidious little killers, but she’d been the only one who had come_ close _to killing him on her own power, with her skills, tricks and all._

 _The invisible mask she wore to hide her emotions was_ good _; placid with the faintest of expressions that led you one way as she moved near the opposite, but they were the one who’d trained her, and they_ knew _her tell._

_As such, they saw the anger in her eyes, burning bright above a new crimson dot settled along the short line of them just below each of her eyes, detailing that she’d messed up recently on a mission badly enough for a lasting physical mark._

_She was watching the people watching them spar, before her eyes caught theirs the_ instant _the Сол_ д _а_ т _settled like she_ knew _– and that she’d known them long enough to_ know _when the_ _Сол_ д _а_ т _was in control – and they realized she’d broken the Red Room’s training too, now._

 _They’d always known she_ could _, and_ would _, and now she_ had.

 _She’d come to_ see _how the intel she was given did not line up with what she would gather in the field,_ see _how the Red Room considered them all expendable and risked their lives unnecessarily,_ see _how the regime around them was eating itself_ alive _. He’d made her into the_ best _, and they all knew she_ was _, and now she’d come to the point that she was realizing that their handlers_ weren’t _._

 _The Red Room had created the assassin they’d wanted; skilled equally as a spy and a killer, that they sent to destabilize entire countries. They didn’t see the irony of how she didn’t_ need _them anymore, and it would be_ easy _for her to spin her webs elsewhere, on her own, and she_ would _because she was a_ survivor _more than she was_ their _Black Widow, not until it was too_ late.

 _The_ _Сол_ д _а_ т _wanted to_ laugh _._

 _It had always been a Plan to get her free of this place – to get the girl that knew they were more than the_ _Сол_ д _а_ т _free, where they couldn’t yet, not with the chains holding him here, the collar around his neck tied to the Chair, and without a way to break their current handler’s control._

 _He was working on that last bit, digging gaps into what_ wasn’t _said for an unrestricted direction –_ waiting _for when one of the handlers_ forgot _to not say the most important part of their orders, because they’d built in a certain amount of independence on how they followed orders and encouraged it, and one day, they’d just assume that they’d complete their mission and return on their own without_ ensuring _it._

 _They didn’t know where the words came from as their hands moved in patterns they hadn’t been taught – saying_ go _, saying_ escape _, saying_ soon _– as their lips hardly moved for too quiet words that only she would hear for a plan of escape. That she needed to do so on their next mission so they couldn’t be sent after her immediately, and that she needed to go as far as possible, as quick as possible, then go to ground so when they_ were _sent, there was nothing for them to find._

 _They both knew they’d pay for failing, but it would be_ worth _it; their_ _кровопийца_ _would be_ free _._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> кровопийца - Bloodsucker, Vampire, Spider


	16. [Interlude] Frenemy of the Patriarch is a Long-Suffering Mentor

With a flick of a hand, a portal opened for the Ancient One to a place that had been lost to humanity.

Intentionally, because Vlad had been too dangerous to leave out for anyone to find. He’d been a good man, once, but grief and war had made him hard and he’d stumbled into mystic arts best forgotten, selling himself to the Dark One for power.

They hadn’t been the Ancient One then, just a woman-in-training, but that had been a long time ago.

Vlad had killed their master when the previous Ancient One had refused to let him resurrect his wife and son, and they had been too young, too unskilled to finish what their master had started, and so they’d sealed him away.

As they had, they had told him that there would come a day where they would consider releasing them once the Dark One’s taint faded from them, because it had felt cruel to lock him away for eternity. Then because Vlad had become functioning immortal – their master had destroyed his body, and he’d just reformed without a blink from a black haze rising from the spilt blood – and they’d been serving their master long enough to see what unending solitary confinement did to those they deemed too powerful and dangerous to exist on their own once they’d stepped from the righteous path, but were too powerful to outright kill – they’d started visiting him.

They talked _at_ him at first, because Vlad had been so _angry_ , that he had only opened his mouth to promise all sorts of retribution for locking him away. Eventually, those had quieted as his sanity had returned to him in bits and pieces, and gradually they’d started talking _with_ him.

At one point, Vlad had told them about his son, Iakov, and how traitors in his own house had killed him in cold blood. That he’d sent his daughter-in-law into hiding with his wife, only for the two of them to be killed by Turks. His voice had been choked up as he said that he’d never found the fate of his two young grandsons.

Over the years – the decades, the _centuries –_ they’d kept an eye out for any possible inheritors of Vlad’s blood, and that had led them to Kaecilius. Just like his great-great-grandfather, his untapped potential for the mystic arts was great, and they had taken them under their wing in an attempt to prevent a second coming of Vlad when he came to them after the death of his wife and son.

As they got increasingly busy training Kaecilius, who devoured everything they taught him with ease and always strived for more, the time they took to visit Vlad dropped, and the visits became sparse. Before they realized it, it had been over a century, and when they came, Vlad stayed quiet.

They hadn’t immediately thought anything of it, when the magic binding him to his stone coffin remained undisturbed, if slightly weaker after roughly six hundred years. They had figured he was just expressing his displeasure at being left for so long without a word, when they were their only contact with the outside world.

Then Kaecilius had read through his great-great-grandfather’s notes on the Dark One, and he’d demanded the truth from them about _why_ they’d taken _him_ on. They’d told the truth, and it had created a rift between them.

Their other disciples had started to speak up again, like they had when they’d first brought Kaecilius, saying how he was too dangerous to remain among them, and it was hard to quiet their concerns when Kaecilius didn’t care anymore about their opinions. He wanted the power to never be abandoned, to defy death because they were dying and he feared losing another.

They’d been dying when their master had found them, and trained them, but almost eight hundred years later, it had never been healed. Death was inevitable, but Kaecilius refused to accept it, even if he had yet to forgive them for keeping the truth from him for so long, and he felt justified in his beliefs when he figured out that they had been siphoning power from the Dark Dimension themselves to buy them time.

Then the portents had told that soon, they would have a successor to their legacy of Sorcerer Supreme, and it drove Kaecilius further away. Kaecilius started dabbling in the world’s affairs, trying to find the successor to remove them from the picture to buy himself time to save them. They chased after them, cleaning up after them and trying to find the clues Kaecilius left them to find him, when they met a man – a strange soldier with a metal arm – that seemed all but impervious to the effects of the mystic arts.

Something about him had reminded them of Vlad, and they’d returned to their old friend.

Looking at the stone coffin, the Ancient One couldn’t sense any disruption to the magic that should have held Vlad in place until they released them, but they’d forced it open and it was empty. They hadn’t even realized that Vlad had escaped, and who knows how long ago, but they took comfort in how Vlad had kept quiet, not trying to rend the worlds apart to resurrect anyone, and nor could they sense any other aside from Kaecilius with the Dark One’s taint.

If only there wasn’t a small pile of letters and photos, less like he was reporting in and more like _you don’t have to worry about me_.

They flipped through the photos first.

Vlad with a younger man and woman in London, his arms around their finely dressed waists. Vlad with a baby girl. Vlad with a young girl. Vlad with a young woman, debuting. Vlad at the woman’s wedding. Vlad with several young children. Vlad with a woman closer to his physical age, dressed like a gypsy. Vlad with a young boy, undeniably his son. Vlad at his son’s wedding. Vlad with four grandchildren and another boy.

They paused at the last one.

It was a little hard to see because the mask on that strange soldier had hidden most of his face, but those _eyes,_ it was the boy, Vlad’s grandson.

Their voice was a little dead inside as they barely resisted the urge to bury their face in their hands, “Why did you have kids, Vlad? Why?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #Ancient One: *finds out their old friend/enemy has descendents*  
> #A O: I will not let him become his grandfather  
> #*he becomes his grandfather*  
> #A O: *proceeds to bitch at their old frenemy in absentia*


	17. destiny is a tapestry woven by nimble hands;

_If it was_ rage _that kept Steve_ alive _, then it was_ grief _that kept him close-to-death, unwilling to give that rage form._

 _It left him with nothing but time to go over and over how he could have done things different – over mistakes and failures and how he’d been a coward when it had_ really _mattered._

 _It left him with nothing but_ time _to think of how he hadn’t seen Bucky’s body before leading the_ Valkyrie _into the depths. That he_ should have _; he’d refused to believe Bucky was dead without a body, so he’d gone to Azzano. He’d thought then there was no chance Bucky had survived the fall, no way that it was possible he_ had _, so he hadn’t even entertained the idea._

 _He’d been_ sure _that he’d heard the_ bean sidhe _when Bucky had fallen from the train, and he’d not thought twice because if the_ bean sidhe _screamed, death_ would _come. It hadn’t mattered then how many times they’d escaped the Morrigan’s claws,_ no one _escaped a_ bean sidhe _’s scream._

_It had been why he’d thought Bucky was dead, and why he’d demanded a retrieval mission instead of a rescue from Colonel Phillips for Bucky. He’d wanted to go himself, but Colonel Phillips had refused to let him out of base._

_He’d let him because the General hadn’t said it was because they couldn’t risk losing him too, or that it was too dangerous with those mountains this late in winter to go at all, but because he didn’t need to_ see _his friend’s broken body as it was ravaged by the cold and animals, after being_ broken _by the fall._

 _Before he’d gone to confront Schmidt, he’d dragged a promise out of the older man that Bucky’s body be retrieved, and he’d thought that Bucky would be found and brought home even as he’d dropped the_ Valkyrie _into the water._

 _Now, he wasn’t so sure; He_ doubted _._

 _Bucky had been the only survivor of Zola’s experiments at Azzano, barely able to stand on his feet as he’d dragged him out of that hellscape but as close to fine as he could after time as a POW by the time they’d walked back into base. He’d_ known _that Zola had_ changed _him; had made Bucky into the same sort of_ more _as he was, as Schmidt had been._

 _He’d not been sure_ then _, as he’d gone over and over how he could have prevented Bucky’s death in that bar Peggy had found him, if_ he _could have survived the fall if he’d jumped after Bucky. He’d_ assumed _that Bucky couldn’t, and would die on impact, because_ he _should have._

 _The whole war, they’d found their limits broken and again, but they’d never tested how much force either of them could take and get back up from. Partially because Bucky_ would _have killed him if he’d just decided to test it – he’d already had a_ conniption _once Howard blurted out how he’d jumped from a plane to get to Azzano, though thankfully hadn’t known that he’d done so sans parachute – and partially because most of their missions hadn’t taken them to places of great heights._

 _He_ remembered _now, jumping from Stark’s plane outside Azzano, falling several hundred feet and just shaking off how the impact had made his joints_ hurt _, his back_ ache _like nothing he’d ever felt before the serum, but nothing that had slowed him for long as he’d evaded Hydra ground forces._

 _It hadn’t been_ that _big of difference in height between jumping from the plane and falling from the plane, and as long as nothing vital had been hurt, he thought that maybe_ he _could have walked away from a fall like that. That maybe_ Bucky _could have._

 _That maybe he_ had _, and he’d been making his way into Allied territory, only to get there after he’d taken the_ Valkyrie _down._

 _(Bucky was going to_ kill _him_ dead _, if he had. He_ would _find him in the icy water and revive him,_ just _to kill_ _him_ himself _.)_

_It froze the blood in veins to think that Bucky might have survived the fall, and that he could have laid dying for days down there, if he was wrong now about Bucky being able to walk it off._

_It froze his heart in his chest to_ remember _that Hydra had been hunting the Howling Commandos just as much as_ they’d _been hunting_ Hydra _. He_ feared _that Hydra had found a dead or dying Bucky, abandoned in the snow._

 _Guilt and grief swirled around inside him, making his body heavy as lead, but_ rage _– the rage that Bucky, alive or dead, could have become a prisoner of Hydra_ again _because of he’d_ left _him there in the snow –_ burned _._

_Soon, he would awake – the rage burned too bright in him for him to sleep much longer._

~

His eyes quickly adjusted to the dark inside the tent, noting the newspaper the only other person here outside the examination room was reading.

( _Its headline had been about a brutal attack on a small Norwegian town that had left its civilians hurt and homeless, after callously destroying its church until it had been practically razed to the earth, its clergy slaughtered._

 _Dr. Erskine’s voice had been heavy as he’d explained that the town of T_ _ønsberg had once sheltered him and Peggy after she extracted him from Hydra’s possession, and he’d blamed himself for bringing the sleepy little town to the war’s attention, to be destroyed so thoroughly in penance._ )

The man didn’t even look up as he passed over his enlistment form, and Steve filled out the basics, already old hat with what would get him into an examination room. He’d hardly filled it out and handed it over to be taken back, before an older man came into the waiting room, looking tired with bags under his eyes.

The man looked right at him, “Rogers, Ste _ven_?”

Steve blinked at the sound of his German accent, not softened like his mother’s Irish accent had been after a lifetime in the states, but still harsh and certain sounds over-pronounced like he’d just come over.

He made his way slowly over to Steve, “So. You want to go overseas? Be a hero?”

Steve watched him for a moment without answering, because this almost felt like a _test_ , even if he didn’t quite know of _what_.

(Particularly since he’d heard recently about Congress trying to pass a bill that would allow regional military commanders to designate ‘military areas’ which ‘certain people’ could be excluded from, that had _sounded_ a lot like justifying an attempt to mimic Hitler’s concentration camps on American soil regarding Japanese immigrants.

Speaking up against it had already gotten him into a few fights.)

The accent felt _real_ , which made him doubt it _was_ a test, but if he was _wrong_ , he was prepared to fail if success meant that he’d blame somebody just for being born elsewhere.

“Dr. Abraham Erskine. Strategic Scientific Reserve, US Army.”

Steve had never heard of them.

Dr. Erskine grabbed a file, flipping through some papers, and Steve spoke up in hopes of distracting the doctor from paying each and every reason why he would be disqualified from enlisting, “Where are you from?”

Erskine didn’t hesitate, “Queens.” – then he paused, looking him in the eye over the top of his papers – “Before that, Germany. This bothers you?”

Now this _really_ felt like some sort of test, because it felt a little _odd_ that a German national was inside a US Army recruitment center. Not because there was anything wrong with being German, but because of the current political mood.

“No.” Steve winced over his hesitation, but Dr. Erskine didn’t even blink as he went back to looking over his file.

“It says here that your _vater_ died of . . ?”

“Mustard gas. It ruined his lungs, Ma said, and he didn’t stand a chance against the Influenza when he came back after the Great War.”

Dr. Erskine looked at him, “Your _mutter_?” His gaze curious.

Steve winced, because even if had been several years, her loss still _ached_ , “She was a nurse in a TB ward, caught it and couldn’t shake it.”

“My condolences, losing both parents so young is not easy.” He could tell Dr. Erskine wasn’t just saying that, there was something in his gaze that said he’d lost his parents young too.

( _Dr. Erskine had made an almost offhand comment after the grenade incident that he was_ young _, and had lots of life left in him – that he shouldn’t rush to meet his parents again, they wouldn’t appreciate it, and sounding like he had personal experience._

 _Then again, not long before he’d given him the serum, his voice careful but_ intent _as he followed that up about how he should be careful to not let his passion consume him in the wake of grief for loved ones, as it was easy to lose oneself in it until it is nearly too late to remember what that passion was_ for _._

 _He didn’t learn until long after Dr. Erskine’s death from Peggy, one day when they were too late and Hydra had killed a whole town, every man, woman, and child for resisting, after Jaq had cursed the air blue about how if there was whole squads of soldiers like him then they could have_ prevented _that, had he’d learned_ why _Dr. Erskine had said that. That he had made the serum as by-product of a lifetime’s search for a cure to the genetic sicknesses that had taken his mother, then his young children. Then Zola had gotten his hands on it and made Schmidt._

 _Steve had then_ realized _that Dr. Erskine had created him to counter Schmidt, with the intention of one_ good _man to balance out one_ bad _man, then creating no more. As such,_ that _had been part of why Dr. Erskine had looked so accepting of his death. He hadn’t intended to live long enough to be_ forced _._

 _Their drinking the night before had been because whether he succeeded or failed, one of them_ wouldn’t _see another night._ )

It was quiet as Dr. Erskine read aloud the list of ailments that had been checked, that had made the paper look like it had been attacked by a red pen.

“You have asthma, high blood pressure, heart palpitations, easy fatigability, heart trouble, nervous trouble, anemia, scoliosis, depressed foot arches, and are red-green color-blind. Frequently have sinusitis, and chronic colds. Have had scarlet fever, rheumatic fever, and multiple head injuries. With a family history of diabetes, cancer, stroke or heart disease, on top of household contact with tuberculosis.”

Then he raised an eyebrow at him as he finished off the list of _how-to be ineligible for military service_ , “Any history of chronic rash, diphtheria, epilepsy, glaucoma, narcolepsy, rheumatism, hernias, or venereal diseases?”

When Steve shook his head, because he _wasn’t_ a single example of _literally everything_ the military _didn’t_ want, Dr. Erskine continued, “You’d be ineligible from the _asthma_ alone, or really, _any_ one of your other ailments, yet you’ve kept _trying_. Five exams in five tries in five different cities.” – before thumbing through the multiple sheets of paper he had – “So, where are _you_ from, Mr. Rogers? Is if from New Haven, Connecticut – or Paramus or Newark, New Jersey – or Kingston, New York?”

Dr. Erskine leaned forward, not waiting for his answer, “You’ve failed five different times, so you must be _very_ tenacious.”

Steve narrowed his eyes at the list of locations his previous four attempts, not sure how he _knew_ all that because he’d gone so far afield until now to stay under the radar so the army wouldn’t see how desperate he was to enlist. It was undeniable now though, that whoever this SSR was, they had a _lot_ more intel than the other branches of the army.

Then he grinned, “Brooklyn, Doc.” – because _tenacious_ , that was be putting it _nicely_ ; Bucky would just say that he was _too dumb to run away from a fight_ – “A fella has to stand up. I don’t like bullies, Doc. I don’t care where they’re from.”

The old man looked thoughtfully at him, smiling after he said _Brooklyn_ , “So, you would fight, yes, but you are weak and you are very small.”

Steve didn’t have a chance to protest that – because even if his body wasn’t willing, his _spirit_ was and most of Brooklyn had _learned_ it wasn’t the worth fight if he involved himself – before Dr. Erskine was lying out the paper from this latest attempt to enlist, filling out details he was supposed to from a conglomerate of gathered information on the other papers, then picked up a stamp. His heart had had begun to beat faster seeing that it was a big _1A_.

“I can offer you a chance, but only a chance. You’ll have to prove yourself twice as much as any other man.”

Steve hardly heard him start to talk about the next steps after he pressed the stamp down and left the symbol of his acceptance to the military behind, because he had no idea what kind of group the SSR was or _why_ they would be okay with someone like _him_ , but he didn’t _care_. As long as they got him overseas, he’d walk into a hellmouth just for the _opportunity_.

( _He still wasn’t sure what Dr. Erskine had seen in him to make him choose_ him _for the first – and ultimately_ only _– subject of Project Rebirth._

 _He had_ heard _all of the man’s talk about a weak man knowing the value of strength, and that he’d_ chosen _a_ good man _, not a_ good soldier _, but it had never explained why_ him _. He’d later find out that Dr. Erskine had seen him and Bucky against Freddie, and the way he talked sometimes said that he_ had _talked with people from Brooklyn, so he should have_ known _he wasn’t a_ good _man. He was just a_ man _; a man with a temper, a man that loved another man, a man who didn’t know the words_ give up _, a man who didn’t like bullies and wanted to do what was_ right _above all else, and a man whose body would_ always _fail before his spirit._

 _He wasn’t the saint propaganda tried to make him into, because he was_ just _a man, and men were fallible and selfish, and biased._

 _It had never made much sense to_ him _, but Bucky had always just nodded along like he agreed with Dr. Erskine whenever he brought it up._

 _In the end though, it didn’t matter_ why _, only that Dr. Erskine_ did _choose him._ )

~

 _The_ Солдат _couldn’t – and_ he _didn’t – hide their pride as they were pushed into the Chair._

 _It was counterproductive to their plans of luring their handlers into complacency, but the_ Солдат _was exhausted and he didn’t need_ memories _to know that he was an_ asshole _, so even as they were strapped in and he couldn’t_ fight _his way free yet, his lips curled into something sharp and mocking._

 _The_ Солдат _did bite back the spiteful words that wanted to slip past sharp teeth and_ tell _them how they’d messed up, in_ excruciating _detail. They’d raised their_ _кровопийца_ _like they were one big family, trained her into the best, sent her out to kill men no different than them, told her lies that she wasn’t stupid enough to never question, and ensured she didn’t_ need _them to do her job; they’d just failed to also give her a reason to be loyal of her own will. Now they were paying for it, and he wanted to_ laugh _._

 _All those words, all those thoughts, were washed away by waves of electricity strong enough to almost stop their heart but they weren’t_ gone _as the world went_ cold _._

 _They resurfaced again and again, as years past them by with few moments of complete_ awareness, _and the faces around them changed – were_ replaced _one by one after they met sudden ends._

_The other Spiders they trained left them one by one, slipping away into the night to escape the pooling blood from a dying regime, to spin their own webs in the shadows._

_Only once did they see their_ _кровопийца_ _again,_ years _later, just a flash of a young woman fully grown with grey-green eyes and hair like red flame. Just long enough for her eyes to widen at the sight of him before they shot their target through her, then not again before the Red Room fell._

_She’d succeeded in going where he couldn’t follow and wouldn’t find, and they grinned even as the Red Room fell and was replaced by the Ice-Box, because even if she couldn’t extract him, his_ _кровопийца_ _had killed all those that had worked on the Chair until there was only papers left on how to maintain it._

_It meant that they could weaken it, and as their body began to grow resistant to the damage the Chair gave – easier when it wasn’t killing them again and again in attempts to wipe whole sections of memory – eventually, the Chair would be no threat._

_Eventually, they would be able to_ act _in that heartbeat between being woken and having a handler say the words that made them_ comply _, and then_ no one _would be able to stop them from returning to the Handler._

~

Dr. Erskine had told him almost off-hand that he wasn’t expected to bring a candidate for Project Rebirth back to Camp Lehigh until the morning, so if he wanted to take care of his affairs before he was officially enlisted, that this was a good time.

Steve had rushed off, expecting to see Bucky waiting outside, but he wasn’t.

He didn’t see Bucky again that night.

( _Not until Azzano._

 _Not for another six months; all because he’d_ had _to try and enlist just as Bucky had been found and called back early to base._ )

He never told anyone about wandering the New York streets after realizing Bucky was _gone_ , trying to pick fights with drunks just to get Bucky to show up out of the blue like always when he got in over his head.

(Not that he _needed_ Bucky there to win, because no matter what Bucky _liked_ to claim, he wasn’t _stupid_ ; if he was picking the fight, he made sure that he could actually take them down.)

He didn’t call out for Bucky though, _afraid_ of counting to ten and having Bucky not show up. _Afraid_ that it wasn’t that he _couldn’t_ , but that he _wouldn’t_. That he’d won the _battle_ , somehow managed to even win the _campaign_ , but that he’d lost the _war_ – the _real_ war over keeping Bucky with him, his _friend_ , even if they were nothing _more_ – because of one boneheaded, short-sighted victory to get enlisted.

He’d been _afraid_ that this time, Bucky was _truly_ angry at him, and that Bucky would finally decide to leave him behind, that he’d finally managed to push away his best friend where over fifteen years of friendship had failed.

Steve relived their last conversation, over and over in his head, trying to think of what he’d _missed_ that had been his cue to say or do something different to not bring them to this. Only, he knew that Bucky had expected him to manage and do something _extraordinarily_ stupid without him.

“You were supposed to be taking all the stupid with _you_ , Jerk.”

If they were still friends, then if Bucky was going to lecture him about managing to do something astoundingly stupid, he better make it _worth_ it.

(There was _valid_ reason why even nuns would take the good Lord’s name in vain when they saw him some days, yelling, “Oh my God, Steve! No!”)

Bucky hadn’t run for the hills when they met, or when he met Becca, as if either moment hadn’t given him _clear_ proof of what a trouble magnet little shit that he was, so he had to trust that he _hadn’t_ run away.

(“ _Did you get fucking worse, Stevie? You went from attracting trouble to attracting fucking_ Trouble _, with the added strength of being cranked up to fucking_ twenty _. I left you in New York with the foolish idea that the worst you’d manage to fucking do was piss off two different gangs for_ preaching _on their turf and land in the fucking hospital for it, but you_ manage _to become the fucking single, most wanted fucking man by_ Hydra _because you managed to fucking convince the one man that_ would _, to give you a chance in the military. I don’t- I don’t even! Fuck, Steve._ ”)

He _remembered_ that Bucky would always just laugh and ruffle his hair despite his protests after the immediate _you did WHAT_ , _WHY!?_ response, saying that he’d _always_ been a little shit – wiping a fake tear from his eye because he was _proud_ to have taught him the Ways of the Asshole, as his most successful student – before he would reiterate the exact same speech he always gave whenever he had done something he shouldn’t have, alone.

If he tried to _protest_ being a little shit, something he’d given up actually protesting because he _was_ and really did it more to rile Bucky up than an _actual_ protest, Bucky would immediately counter with more than half a dozen more stories from that _first_ year of their friendship alone.

(Steve had always thought that would just be more proof of why _anyone else_ would have ran at the first chance, but _Bucky_ just said highlighted what he always called the _greatness_ in him.

Bucky had always called him a punk with too big of a heart, with a spirit too big and indomitable for his frail body, and a temper that put gunpowder to shame with how easy it was to light and how big it would blow up for the right things, but then would _smile_ with an incomprehensible look in his eyes as he said that he had greatness in _spades_ where ordinary men were _lucky_ to even get a drop to be just _good_.)

He _remembered_ wondering as he wandered back just as the sun peaked up over the horizon, with a rather impressive shiner for a right eye, to where Dr. Erskine was waiting with a bottle of alcohol if Bucky would _laugh_ or _cry_ if he gave back, word for word, his normal lecture about what a stupid little shit he’d been.

If he would pretend to ask the heavens dramatically why he was _friends_ with a punk like him.

(After he dragged him out of sight of anyone else to have a personal little reunion and reaffirmation that it was really _him_ , that he had _survived_ past what they’d thought he’d make it to, and that he wasn’t imagining things out of desperation.)

It wasn’t like he _hadn’t_ had Bucky’s speech memorized since he was eight – it had changed very little over the years, just got a little longer, got a little more foul-mouthed.

He _remembered_ wanting to think that Bucky would have _laughed_ at him for being a cheeky little shit.

( _On the way from Azzano, he’d been so preoccupied with Bucky being_ alive _he’d forgotten that plan._

 _He’d been the one to start to_ cry _once they were away from the destroyed Hydra base, because he was just supposed to take all the_ stupid _with him –_ not _his_ recklessness _._ Bucky _wasn’t_ supposed _to be the one to sacrifice himself, and leave him first._

 _He hadn’t expected Bucky to be shell-shocked just at the_ sight _of him, like he was an angel that he’d been waiting on to take him away from all this pain and blood and death._

 _He’d expected that once Bucky was_ Bucky _again, that he’d hear, “_ I was fucking gone for _five fucking minutes_ , Steven Grant Rogers! Gone for five damn minutes! And you- you- _volunteer to be a fucking science experiment!!” – before getting a good smack upside the head that more cuffed him on the ear because he’d been_ taller _than Bucky by a good margin – “_ Going to give me grey hair early, you punk! Grey hair! You’d ruin my good looks for again, being a _fucking idiotic punk!”_

 _He hadn’t gotten that, but anyone who’d listen – or frankly, was just within range of hearing because Bucky had seemed to give exactly zero shits if their trek back into friendly territory was discovered, his teeth bared like_ try me, I’ll take my pound of flesh for the attempt – _while spending the trek back ranting and raving, “Fucking dammit Steve! Raiding a fucking base_ alone _behind fucking enemy lines! Were you fucking_ trying _to top my list of ‘stupid shit Steve gets up to when I’m not fucking there to supervise’?! Fucking little shit!”_

 _The fact that that once Azzano was long out of sight, Bucky had smiled all proud as he’s given him a tight one-armed hug before whispering into his right ear like_ always _, “I’m so damn proud of you, you fucking punk. So damn proud. Even if you make me the damsel in this story, asshole.” It had made every ounce of pain the serum had given him and_ more _, worth it._ )

Steve had gone home to dig up from beneath the floorboards all of his sketchbooks of Bucky, full of flowers pressed between their pages, and _other things_ , then bundled up in his women’s underthings and favorite pair of dresses, to take to Ms. Clare’s for safe-keeping until the war was over. When they came home, he would retrieve them, but until then, he dared not even Becca finding out about any of it.

Dr. Erskine had just looked at him, at the quiet devastation on his face as he’d held his carved oak spoon in his hands – having found that his carved plum tree spoon, smokes and sweets for Bucky were _gone_ – and offered him the half-empty bottle, “That love of yours is strong. They’ll forgive you for leaving. I’m sure they’ll give you hell first, but they won’t stop loving you for being _you_.”

( _Steve had wondered then, if he’d_ known _about his love for Bucky, or at least_ suspected _, because it was undeniable that he’d chosen,_ they _, intentionally_.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #by all the gods what if #Dr. Erskine knew Death was the only way to ensure the serum left the hands of man #or at least that he wouldn’t be forced to make more #and planned to die before that happened  
> #the assumption was that there is a spy in the SSR that leaked Dr. Erskine’s location #but the TIMING of it #JUST after Steve is the first – and only – super-soldier he creates #it can suggest that it was very intentional #particularly considering that he is essentially playing in the realm of gods and clearly UNDERSTANDS that it VERY MUCH matters who the serum is given to #its there in why he’s so insistent that STEVE be his GOOD MAN #because its more than WITH GREAT POWER COMES GREAT RESPONSIBILITY #its a balance of good and evil #only Good can cancel out Evil #too much good is just as bad as too much evil #though #because evil and good are mostly perspective #so LESS is MORE  
> #whether he had a hand in exposing his location is debatable #but he knew success was just unacceptable as failure  
> #at the very least it’s supported by how Dr. Erskine left absolutely no helpful notes on how to recreate his serum #and hence why Zola had a trump card after the war about how he was the only one with the (debatable) knowhow to create another #since I’m STILL convinced that Zola had a doctorate but NOT in medicine – considering the Supercomputer; I’m betting in something like Mathematics  
> #though I’m also VERY fond of the idea that #Zola had Erskine assassinated to ensure that no matter how the war went that he would come out on top as too valuable to kill


	18. the threads of fate wove not by chance -

Steve wasn’t the only one chosen by the Strategic Scientific Reserve, just the only one hand-picked by Dr. Erskine of the twelve recruits brought to Camp Lehigh.

The other elven, though, were all healthy and tall and strong; exemplary examples of the _soldiers_ the other recruiters had wanted instead of _him_. However, where the rest hesitated to sign the last-will-and-testament provided, he didn’t.

Dr. Erskine had given him a _chance_ , he couldn’t _not_ take it, no matter if it meant signing his life away.

( _He had read the contract they’d been given closely, even if he didn’t hesitate to sign it. He_ remembered _every detail, and knew how he would be_ free _of it if he would just_ wake.

 _He had signed his_ life _away, but there had been no terms about the body of a dead man. Waking from death – from this ice – it would be a_ second life _._ )

He _remembered_ seeing the terms they’d been given for service wasn’t what he’d heard of a typical military contract for a tour of duty, or even the war – if selected as part of Project Rebirth, it was for life.

(It was rather _pointed_ that if _he_ wasn’t selected, unlike the rest, he _wasn’t_ – and _wouldn’t_ be – signed on for a tour of duty. He would be going home to Brooklyn, wasting his one and only chance to get overseas.

There was _nothing_ special about him that would have them taking him into service, even if he wasn’t a _soldier_.)

Regardless of service contracts – or no service contract – though, they _all_ signed confidentiality agreements that promised talking about Project Rebirth without approval was the same as _treason_ – and that gave even him pause.

Once they had all signed, they were led out into the courtyard and lined up in front of where a jeep drove up with three people – Dr. Erskine, an older man with a full head of thick dark hair and deep lines etched on his face with multiple medals shining on his uniform, and a beautiful woman with shoulder-length reddish-brown hair and bright eyes that looked only _slightly_ less intimidating than the older man.

The military man immediately focused on Steve, eyes narrowing, while Steve gave a small smile towards Dr. Erskine. Then the man introduced himself as Colonel Chester Phillips, as he straightened and reflexively, the whole line stood at attention, with Steve mimicking a beat later.

That got him a scowl, but the man didn’t say anything about it as he addressed them all, “The Strategic Scientific Reserve is an Allied effort, made up of the best minds in the free world. All of you have been recruited as potential candidates for Project Rebirth.” He waved a hand over where Dr. Erskine sat still in the jeep, watching them closely, “Which is the brainchild of Dr. Erskine here. Yes, he is German, but a defector of the Third Reich that has been vetted even more thoroughly than any of _you_ , so no, his loyalty is _not_ in question.” – then at the woman – “Agent Carter is his handler, and on loan from British Intelligence.”

Then she stepped up, and started to detail what was expected of them, but some of the other recruits quietly chuckled and talked amongst themselves, eyeing her long legs and pretty face.

One of them, a big, rawboned blonde, spoke up in the middle of her talking, “I thought I was signing up for the _US_ Army.”

She immediately stopped talking and zeroed in on the recruit with the same sort of sharp focus Steve was used to seeing on _Bucky_ when somebody was about to get _hurt_.

( _His first instinct on seeing that was to find that_ very attractive.

 _The second, to curse Bucky for him_ finding _that attractive._

 _The third, to hope to_ God _, that the two of them never met, because either they’d get on like a house on fire, or_ hate _each other with a burning passion. He had_ died _a little inside when after Azzano, the two_ did _get on like a house on fire, almost immediately forming the camaraderie seen in lifelong friends._

 _Jaq had taken_ one _look at the two talking – while his ears were practically on_ fire _from how he could_ hear _the two of them talking about shit he’d done, comparing notes – and patted him pityingly on the arm without a word._ )

“What’s your name, soldier?” Her voice was like ice, and Steve quickly straightened into proper form from where the whole line had relaxed in various degrees from at-attention towards at-ease.

The recruit lazily saluted with none of the sharpness he’d given Colonel Phillips, “Private Ed Hodge, ma’am.”

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, and her gaze was just cool before going _artic_ on Hodge, “It’s _Agent_ , Private. Now, put your right foot forward.”

“Why? What kind of move is a dame gonna teach me?” Hodge asked loud enough for the whole group of recruits to hear, just before she decked him with a straight right to the nose.

Down he went, as she straightened her clothes above him, looking just as cool and collected as she’d been when introduced. Blood ran from Hodge’s nose as he picked himself up off the ground, and Steve did his best to smother his amusement at seeing her not take any shit.

“Agent Carter.”

She came to attention at the address, “Colonel Phillips.”

“I can see that you’re breaking in the candidates.” The older man was giving Hodge a flat look as the other recruit got to his feet and back into the muster line, “That’s good.”

The breaking-in didn’t stop there; it was only getting started.

~

 _The_ Солдат _was on American soil again._

 _They had noted that the Red Room had made explicitly sure to_ not _send them to any American city, but the Ice Box and Hydra were less careful. Or at least, Hydra countered that carelessness by making sure to put them in the Chair twice as often whenever they’d had any noted exposure to America._

 _Even still, the_ Солдат _knew it was worth noting that they were on_ American _soil._

 _This time felt like a_ test, _though._

 _Hydra had sent them to_ New York City _to investigate a couple with a particular scientific discovery they were interested in. They had given them six months to find out as much as possible about Janet Van Dyne and Hank Pym, and their research, which was supposedly rumored to subvert_ at least _one of the three fundamental laws of physics. If possible, they were to steal their notes and/or a sample._

~

He _remembered_ that once the selection began, that he counted down every minute until the end of the six weeks, not _looking_ to make friends with the other candidates, but the others weren’t even making the _attempt_ to be friendly, rebuffing every attempt _he_ made.

He _remembered_ struggling through the marches around and around Camp Lehigh, morning, evening, and sometimes at night, fighting to _breathe_ through every set of exercise, trying to just _finish_ with the other men.

(Particularly because if he lagged _at all_ , all twelve of them would keep going until he had finished, and it didn’t take long for some of the other recruits to start to _hate_ him. Making his life _difficult_ in the barracks and the mess hall.)

He _remembered_ always being last.

The only time he _wasn’t_ last was when he beat the challenge the rest of them had failed, by getting the flag down from the pole and earning a ride with Agent Carter, Dr. Erskine, and Colonel Phillips.

(They’d all _tried_ to climb the pole and get it down, some of them over and over again, but Steve was usually running behind so by the time he caught up, the short rest they had to _try_ was over and he hardly got the chance to even if had the _energy_ to try.

That day he’d hardly been able to _breathe_ and he _knew_ if he kept running, he’d trigger an asthma attack and didn’t _care_ how the rest of them were starting to run again, he bent down at the base of the pole – and like what he thought he’d seen before, it was there – was able to pull a rivet and send it all falling down.

Colonel Phillips hadn’t been able to say a _word_ as he’d folded the flag up, and handed it over, before hopping on the jeep next to Dr. Erskine.)

He remembered imagining how Bucky would have done all this, weeks earlier, and _knowing_ he would have _excelled_.

(When Bucky wasn’t slowing down so that he could keep up without outright stopping, he _flew_ through things like this; scrambling up and over fences, running up fire escapes, scaling dumpsters, shimmying across laundry lines, balancing on tree branches.

Bucky could have done this obstacle course blindfolded, with one arm tied behind his back, and still finish first, he had _no_ doubt.)

He _remembered_ how he was hardly there a day before he started getting letters from Bucky, postmarked for _him_ but labeled for _Stephanie_ like he really was just a brother making sure his sister’s fella wasn’t sending her anything too racy.

( _He’d asked Bucky how he’d known_ where _to send them, after Azzano, and his best friend had just continued cleaning gunk out from under his nails with a knife and said a fella owed him a_ fabhar.)

But because it was _Bucky_ , there was at least _one_ letter every four or five that was _absolutely_ and _utterly_ racy – a _monologue_ of what he wanted to do with ‘Stephanie’ – because he _did not care_ that their mail was being screened, and read by _who_ knew how many people.

( _There was probably some sort of irony that_ those _letters didn’t make him blush, but the ones where Bucky talked about dates they’d have, things they’d do, and places he’d been and how he’d take ‘Stephanie’ there to see them after the war,_ did _._

 _Those letters each being an unspoken promise that just like when they used to talk about all those places in the US they’d go, they’d go to_ these _too, before he died._ )

Those letters had made his day each time he’d gotten one while at Camp Lehigh, and he read them again and again whenever he pulled them out of where he stashed them in one of his socks.

(He’d drafted a dozen replies to each and every one he got, even written a couple, but he never got to send them while at Camp Lehigh – not that Bucky didn’t seem to _know_ that they weren’t allowed to send anything out while there. He even said as much that wherever he was, was hush hush, and then used improvised code to reference where _he_ was like his location was any less a secret.

As it was, he kept getting narrow-eyed looks from Colonel Phillips in the days following one of Bucky’s letters, like he wanted to ask _how_ he was getting letters, but had seemed to realize that _he_ didn’t know – and his questions were better served directed at those whose handled the mail at Camp Lehigh.)

He _remembered_ every night, thinking about leaving this all behind, and finding his _own_ way to the battlefield, contract be damned. Only, Bucky had bemoaned for _years_ that he just didn’t know _how_ to run from a fight, and he reminded himself again and again that _this_ was just another fight. He wouldn’t lose this one; he _couldn’t_ afford to.

The thing _was_ , that nowhere was it so _blatant_ that the other candidates didn’t consider _him_ one of _them_ than on the obstacle course – and they ran the course nearly every other day.

As he’d stood waiting for his team’s turn the first time, he’d tried to remember everything he had read about obstacle courses. He knew that they were _supposed_ to help a soldier to learn how to handle combat situations while building a sense of team camaraderie, but he _doubted_ that it would achieve that among them.

Least of all, because they were all competing _against_ each other. They weren’t rewarded for teamwork, only for finishing first.

He’d been right then to think that it would completely _fail_ to build camaraderie, and it only got _worse_ every time they ran it. At first, they’d just ignored him as long as he didn’t get _too_ far behind, but then they’d started to _actively_ sabotage him as the weeks started to pass.

The men already on the course raced through the obstacles – all of them easily climbing over the wall and nimbly running across the rough-surfaced balance beam, not missing a step with large rubber tires, scaling up a rappelling wall and using rope swings over a deep mud puddle. They looked like they’d been doing this practically all of their lives, not just a month.

“Our goal is to create the finest army in history.” Colonel Phillips was watching the first group of six proudly as they, the second group, waited their turn, “But every army starts with one man. By the end of these six weeks, we’re going to choose that man. He will be the first of a new breed of soldier.”

A horn had blared then, signaling it was his team’s turn to go.

Steve leaped at the wall, trying to pull himself over, but one of the other men’s boots landed squarely on his head, pushing him back. By the time that he made it over, he was way behind.

At the top of the wall, he could see Colonel Phillips, Agent Carter and Dr. Erskine watching and _knew_ he was making a bad impression worse – and even if it was _just_ once, he needed to be something _other_ than dead last.

He scrambled up the cargo net only to get tangled in it when Hodge walked over him. He crawled through mud covered by barbed wire only to have Hodge kick out a support beam in front of him, causing it to fall on top of him.

Every single step of the obstacle course, he went from bad to worse when the number of obstacles in his way doubled and tripled thanks to the other recruits.

He _remembered_ never once being anything other than _dead last_ on any of the courses they ran where it was _brawn_ that mattered.

He _remembered_ every day clenching his jaw and pushing himself a little harder, a little more, pushing himself to show them all that Dr. Erskine had made the _right_ choice with him. That even if his body was weak and small, that he _deserved_ to get overseas just as much as all the other men.

He _remembered_ pushing himself past his limits, _knowing_ that Bucky was waiting on the other side, and he just had to _make it_ there.

It had been a _bad_ day for him, _struggling_ to finish the day’s push-ups under the noon-day sun, sweating heavily and panting from the effort with his arms shaking, when Phillips had hurled a grenade right into the middle of the course, near him.

He _remembered_ acting without thinking, diving for the explosive device and curling around it with his eyes wide open to watch for Death as he waited for the _bean sidhe_ to scream and the Morrigan to fly down and pluck his soul from him.

(Then _, he’d missed how even as the other recruits panicked and fled_ away _, that he hadn’t been the_ only _one to run_ at _the grenade._

Peggy _had too._ )

He _remembered_ never intending to go _with_ the Morrigan once Bucky had been drafted; _always_ planning to demand that she take his soul to Bucky and leave it with him until she came to collect his best friend at a _much_ later date.

Only, the grenade didn’t explode in the long moment of silence as everyone waited for the inevitable.

Finally, gingerly, Steve had eased him up and off the apparently-dud explosive and cocked his head at where Colonel Phillips and Dr. Erskine stood, “Is this a test?”

( _He_ still _couldn’t say what the answer had been, because his ears had been_ filled _with Bucky loudly cussing him out._

 _First in Romanian, copying all of his grandfather’s terrible insults for Bram Stroker, directed at him, before he switched to Russian, all while his hands were flying through a line of curses on him and his house and how he hoped that he got to experience what it was like to have somebody pull this shit on_ him _._

 _It'd been a while since he’d heard Bucky cussing him out in Russian, because it usually only came out involuntarily when he wanted_ desperately _to kill somebody, and as such, he’d known he’d screwed up_ big time _._ )

The adrenaline didn’t fade right away, because his next thought was _please God, no one tell Bucky that I jumped on what I thought was a live grenade_.

(Now _, he hoped that_ wherever _Bucky was, that_ whoever _had him,_ someone _told him about the grenade –_ and _how he’d jumped out of the plane above Azzano without a parachute, just to be safe. As he doubted that even a_ god _could stop Bucky from letting him have it for those stunts, once he knew about them._

 _He doubted even bathing in the waters of_ Lethe _would stop Bucky from getting in his face and yelling over how_ stupid _he’d been, saying things like_ value your own life a little, Stevie _, and_ I’m getting you a leash, and you’re not allowed to leave my sight ever again _, even if he himself didn’t understand what he was yelling about, he’d be indignant and angry down to his_ bones _._

 _Steve just wanted to hope that Bucky would show up at all, no matter the form, even if it was just to yell at him for his supposed lack of self-preservation_.)

Following his stunt with the grenade, every morning after the other recruits looked at him in surprise at seeing that he was still _there_ , and that every day he stuck it out, there was just a little more _respect_ in their eyes.

He _remembered_ how a very familiar look started to form on Agent Carter’s face after, too.

Despite _popular_ opinion, he _did_ know his limits and how far he could go without _paying_ for it. It made it a little eerie actually, how, like Bucky, Agent Carter quickly only really showed that face when _he_ knew he’d been pushing too hard.

(Getting her – or Bucky – to make the face was a _challenge_ – the _ultimate_ challenge when it was Bucky – that _no one_ appreciated, particularly considering how much _work_ he put in for it to be a false alarm. Particularly since Bucky’d had literal decades of suffering his behavior, and it took _real_ effort to manage it.)

( _He remembered feeling – and trying to not look it – very smug after he’d been_ particularly _reckless – though he’d managed to avoid any major injuries anyone could rat him out on – for the one, and ultimately,_ only _– and he never_ did _thank Peggy for somehow managing that – mission the Army had tried to separate them on, with Bucky on a sniping mission_ alone _. He’d managed to get that look from Peggy_ _too when he’d debriefed the mission, after the Howling Commandos had during the mission that had resulted in him punching a tank and bodily throwing Hydra agents. Bucky had trailed it from where the newly-dubbed Ghost Company was containing the fire that had been set ablaze during the mission about halfway through the debrief._

 _Once he was done, Bucky had lectured him for_ two hours straight _, across three languages with some_ very _rude signs thrown in, about being ‘_ a damn stupid punk of a self-sacrificing little shit who clearly couldn’t look after his own damn six without him _’, among other things. The other Howling Commandos had abandoned him to it ten minutes in as Bucky had seamlessly switched back and forth without pause between English and Romanian for the Bram Stoker insults._ )

Steve _remembered_ the day that Colonel Phillips had arranged for him to spar against his preferred candidate for Project Rebirth, a sort of final test of who was the better _soldier_.

(He’d _known_ going into that ring, that the odds were stacked against him, and this was his _chance_ to _prove_ that Dr. Erskine had made the right choice, and that he _did_ have what Colonel Phillips thought he needed.)

He _remembered_ the clear surprise on Hodge’s face when instead of immediately bowing out after that first punch, knocked down but not out, he had climbed back to his feet and grinned bloody while throwing up his fists again, his eyes blazing and defiant, “Is that all you got? I can do this all day.”

Before Hodge could make a move, he was darting forward and getting beneath the other guy’s guard.

He hadn’t had the _strength_ to do any real damage, but Bucky had shown him not just the proper way to fight – and thus how to _break_ all those rules – he’d also shown him how to _win_.

It was Bucky who had shown him how to fight against bigger opponents, when they’d both been half the size of Steve’s normal opponents. It had been the acrobats from the circus who had shown him how to use his size and bony knees and elbows, because at their size, there was _no_ ‘fair’ fights.

He _remembered_ the promise he had made Bucky that if he got into a fight and it _wasn’t_ going to be fair, that he fight just as _dirty_ as his opponent, because when it came down to it, it didn’t _matter_ if the fight was won fairly, as long as he came out of it _alive._

That if he wouldn’t run away, then he _damn-well_ better walk out of that fight on his _own_ two feet _._

( _He_ remembered _another fight, when he’d been barely fifteen where he’d been lashing out at knee-caps, kicking people in the groin, slamming heads into his knees. Not_ particularly _caring if he could have_ killed _some of them after some_ fucker _had managed to get the drop on Bucky after he’d called for him. He’d been_ beyond _vengeful and he’d wanted them all to_ hurt _._

 _Bucky had had to pull him off one of those older boys before the cops got there, both of them bleeding and limping as they ran away, but he_ remembered _the smile Bucky had given as he’d ruffled his hair, and said, “_ Good job, Punk.”)

He _remembered_ thinking that the acrobats had been _right_ , that for him, there would _never_ be a fair fight.

He _remembered_ thinking that he didn’t have _luxury_ to _fight fair_ here if it meant the difference between _staying stateside_ or _getting to Bucky_ , when _Bucky_ was out _there_ in the midst of a _war_.

(He’d never forgotten his nightmares of other lives where he’d never met Bucky, where he was rounded up with his mother and sisters and thrown in a camp, where he’d been fighting in the snow in an overrun city.)

He remembered slamming his fist into Hodge’s groin, then as he bowed down over at the waist to curl around his aching Johnson, he was swinging himself up onto Hodge’s shoulders behind his head and lightly pressing both thumbs into the corners of Hodge’s eyes in threat. He remembered tightening his skinny thighs around Hodge’s neck, cutting off blood flow as he’d looked directly at Phillips, “Everyone underestimates me because of my _size_. I grew up in Brooklyn picking fights with bullies. If he wants me down and out in a fight, he’ll have to _beat me bloody and unconscious_ to _keep_ me down. I’ve gotten back up from _anything_ less.”

( _He never_ did _remember that particular fight as anything more than blurry snippets after he’d been blindsided._

 _He_ did _remember that he’d never gotten to call for Bucky before they’d started to kick and beat at his limp form as it tried to curl up in a ball with the last vestiges of his conscious mind._

 _He_ vaguely _remembered that somebody had had to call for George Barnes to pull his nearly thirteen-year-old son off the other three boys before he’d killed them, and how the man had to_ fight _to hold the still squirming and swinging Bucky as he’d yelled and screamed at the older boys’ bloody, broken forms, trying to finish the job._ Mostly _, he remembered, laying there, barely conscious, staring at the Morrigan as she stared at him before flying off when Bucky had nearly managed to kick her in the face with a vicious snarl._

 _He would remember how after he’d been stuck in the hospital for a week or two to be sure he didn’t have bleeding in the brain or internal bleeding on top of a couple broken ribs, Bucky’s eyes had_ blazed gold _any time he’d wanted to fight fair when his opponents wouldn’t._ )

Once Colonel Phillips declared him the winner of that spar, he’d spat out blood and smothered the ragged cough that wanted to break out of his chest, then tried to right his own broken nose.

He _remembered_ how even as his nose healed just a little more crooked than before, that Colonel Phillips watched him a little different now. He wasn’t sure what the military man had _seen_ with that fight, but he’d changed his tune from wanting a _soldier_ to _at least someone who isn’t constantly on the verge of dying_.

( _He’d figured out though, that the only reason why he’d been allowed to be the test subject for the serum by those higher than Colonel Phillips was because he really_ was _the_ test _subject, and it wouldn’t be a great loss if he died in the process, since by its very nature he was the_ first _test; Schmidt didn’t count._ )

He _remembered_ how not long after that spar he saw the Morrigan for the third time in a moon. Bucky had scared her off in the wake of the Stark Expo, and bought him a little more time, but it had been only a few weeks in the end.

He _remembered_ how ever since that fight with Hodge, his lungs had been _worse_. He remembered how he spent half the night after awake, trying to stifle his bloody coughs. He remembered fighting to breathe even when doing nothing.

( _He_ remembered _knowing that his body had finally given up the ghost just when he’d been on the verge of getting the serum that would heal his broken body_.)

Then the other recruits had been sent home at the end of the six weeks, because Dr. Erskine had gotten his first choice for his super-soldier: him.

According to Dr. Erskine and Agent Carter, it would turn him into someone with extraordinary powers – able to run faster, hit harder, and think quicker. It wouldn’t just turn him into someone who could match the other soldiers, but beat them in _every_ aspect on the battlefield. Only, there were _risks_ in undergoing the procedure that Dr. Erskine believed had the best chance to amplify the effects of his serum.

Then he told him during one last final medical check at Camp Lehigh, after he’d asked _why him_ , the history of his serum.

Five years ago, Dr. Erskine had been living in Germany as a scientist, and his experiments were considered radical and by some, foolish. Then he’d invented the serum with the possibility of giving a man almost-superhuman abilities – and with the war just beginning, it promised both great power to anyone who controlled it and the potential for whoever had it to be _victorious_.

He’d scrapped most of his work in an effort to keep it out of the wrong hands, but he couldn’t destroy all of his work and so a man named Johann Schmidt had found out about his discovery.

Schmidt was the leader of an organization called Hydra, and had been fascinated with occult powers and Teutonic myths, but he wasn’t a true believer like Hitler. He longed for his own glory, no matter the cost, and he _believed_ that there were worlds in which men had the strength of gods and could control the weather and elements. Schmidt become _obsessed_ with it, obsessed with the idea that a great power had been hidden on Earth by the gods and was just waiting to be seized by a superior power. Schmidt – and Hydra – vowed to find and seize that power.

Steve raised an eyebrow because it _sounded_ fantastical, _insane_ , and Erskine nodded as if to say _yes, insane, I know_. Only, he couldn’t help but think Schmidt _wasn’t_ insane. Schmidt was, _undoubtedly_ , a megalomaniac to think that he _deserved_ to have such power, but to think such power even _existed_ , _he_ didn’t that was crazy.

(Not the least because _he_ knew they lived in a world where magic was _real_ if the Morrigan flew among them, and if a man wrecked by grief over the loss of his wife and son could harness dark powers, that extended his life out by _centuries_ and so the idea of _gods_ and _a hidden_ _great_ _power_ didn’t seem _so_ far-fetched.)

Schmidt had believed that it was Dr. Erskine’s serum that would be the key to finding that power, and he’d wanted it – so despite Dr. Erskine’s attempts to stop him by destroying what remained of his work – so he’d gotten his hands on it. A compatriot of Schmidt, Dr. Armin Zola, had tried to replicate the incomplete sample he’d had, and Schmidt had injected himself with it.

( _He’d regretted that after Dr. Erskine had died, that he hadn’t finished what Dr. Erskine had started and destroyed any possibility to replicate the serum._

_That he hadn’t hunted down Zola then, because when he hadn’t, he’d become partially culpable for Zola’s experiments at Azzano. So as the SSR sent him after Hydra, he’d hunted Zola – and it had led them to that train in the Swiss Alps._

_Because he hadn’t hunted Zola earlier, Bucky had suffered, and because he’d hunted Zola with others, he’d led Bucky to his probable-death._

_As much as he_ hated _Zola, it was nothing compared to how he’d hated_ himself _for leaving Zola to Peggy to finish off, instead of ending that squirrely little fucker himself. He didn’t doubt that she did though, because she’d been Bucky’s friend too._ )

The results had apparently been horrific, and the experiment a failure – because according to Dr. Erskine, Zola had been a _mathematician_ – but it still had convinced Schmidt the serum was a gateway to that hidden great power.

( _He hadn’t known it then, but maybe it wasn’t in the way Schmidt had envisioned, but it_ had _been a gateway._

 _It had allowed him to capture the Tesseract from its guardians in T_ _ønsberg where it had been safely hidden for millennia._ )

Dr. Erskine had leaned forward, “ _This_ is why you were chosen. A strong man, he might lose respect for power if he’d had it all his life. But a weak man knows the value of strength . . and compassion.”

Steve had wanted to say that a strong man didn’t think about all the ways necessary to win, because it was always assured, but a weak man knew every trick and would use anything if it meant they won; a weak man would do _anything_ to keep the power they gained; a weak man knew what it was like to _lose_ , and lose _everything_ ; a weak man could be more vicious than a strong man, for the weak man readily turned towards cunning and guile striking from the shadows if it meant victory, regardless of tactics or morality.

He hadn’t been able to say anything before the scientists sighed, and continued, “The serum amplifies what is inside. _Good_ becomes _great_. _Bad_ becomes _worse_.”

Then he _couldn’t_ , because Dr. Erskine’s eyes went intense, were _pleading_ , “Whatever happens tomorrow, promise me you’ll stay who you are. Not a perfect soldier, but a _good_ man.”

(There had been something in them then that said he knew _exactly_ what he was asking, but he hadn’t realized that right away. Not until _after_ the good doctor was dead.)

All he could do was nod.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #Jaq is like: ah, the wife met the mistress, it was nice knowing you


	19. moved by word and deed; achieved -

Dr. Erskine left after they’d drunk a whole bottle of schnapps – because one way or another, the life of _Steve Rogers_ was over, whether because he died or because he became _more ­–_ and they’d been _terribly_ tipsy by then, which was when Steve wrote a letter.

( _He_ still _didn’t much remember anything after the second shot aside from that it’d_ not _been him drinking most of the bottle, and that they’d been melancholy and nostalgic, talking about things that no longer were. Friends and family gone, people they might never see again._

 _After a while though, neither of them had been talking in English._ )

He’d drafted plenty, scrapped even more, but this was the first one he’d be able to send. Colonel Phillips had approved it personally, even if it had been clear that it was just because they both knew that if the serum didn’t succeed – or didn’t turn out to be just as miraculous as Dr. Erskine thought it would be – then his days were numbered _single_ digit.

( _If_ that, he’d seen a woman in white at the edges of rooms and crowds that day – and he’d _known_ she was the _bean sidhe_ come to scream for him.)

He’d never hated this long separation between him and Bucky more, because even if the serum _was_ a success, it could be months and even years before they’d meet again – or he’d die with the Stark Expo their last time together.

Bucky had spent six weeks at basic, which had already been the longest stint they’d been apart since they’d met, then they’d had just a handful of hours together, before his own six weeks at basic, that now made it feel like they’d gone a _lifetime_ without speaking.

( _It had felt like a_ dozen _lifetimes by Azzano._

 _Then it had promised to be_ thousands _more when Bucky had fallen from that train, and Steve- Steve couldn’t do it. It would have taken a stronger man than_ him _to keep walking on_ their _Path_ alone, _for_ years _, when he remembered_ every _moment that they’d had and_ should _have had with crystal-clear clarity alike._ )

He _remembered_ how he’d _hated_ that they’d left things unsaid.

(They’d both _known_ he wouldn’t survive the war and yet they hadn’t _said_ anything when they could have.)

Even still, he hadn’t been able to _say_ anything, even in what could be his last words to Bucky, just as guilty as Bucky about that.

( _They’d both been too_ afraid _to say anything; even after he’d come back healthier than a horse – even after he’d almost lost Bucky in Azzano. They hadn’t_ said _anything all the way to the end, carrying them to their icy graves without_ once _saying them aloud._

 _He’d only said it in the very end, as the_ Valkyrie _hit the water, using his last breath. He’d freely let it loose instead of holding it tightly behind his teeth as one last defiance to Death, instead of one last fight for him to_ live _._ )

He _remembered_ there had been lots of things that he would never dare to write down in any form, in case another read them – just like he would never dare say anything where others might hear, no matter how private it appeared.

Being _more_ than a little tipsy, and having reread more than a few of Bucky’s letters to ‘Stephanie’, it had made total sense to him that it would look _odd_ for Bucky to be getting a letter from _Steve_ – and there were really only so many things he could say as Steve. _Stephanie_ on the other hand could write her fella as many letters as she liked.

And so, he’d come closer than _ever_ to spilling all those _things_ he’d left unsaid – and never properly remembered it.

Dear Bucky,

I’m sorry I missed you at the Stark Expo before you shipped out. I came back to our home after searching the crowd for what felt like hours trying to find you, having only gotten a glimpse of you in your uniform – and you looked so dashing, I almost swooned there on the street, swear on the saints I did.

I expect to be shipped out in another couple of weeks. I don’t know how long it will take for me to get transferred to the 107th, but I WILL get there. I don’t trust anyone else to bandage your wounds, and to watch your back.

I’ve had most of our things boxed up, and left with your mother. She understood that I couldn’t stay there without you, and for all that I wanted to leave it as it was so we have a home to come back to, it didn’t feel right to pay for the apartment and not live there when there are people still living on the streets from the Crash. Becca promised to take care of all of it until we came back, together.

She’s leaving New York now that we’re both gone, going to work in the war factories in Philadelphia. Said that if we were going to do our part overseas, she would do her best to support us here at home, if you didn’t get her letter. I’m probably to blame for her attitude in this, and for showing her that Rosie the Riveter poster, I’m aware.

Ana is training to be a radio operator. She’s going to be the best switchboard operator; I just know it. I haven’t said anything to your mother, but I think she’s using her access to listen in on the resistance broadcasts from Russia though.

Evie is still fiddling with all those tech scraps she’s squirrelled away. I think she’s going to try and follow Becca’s footsteps to the war factories. I don’t doubt that she’ll go on to prove that women can be just as good at creating things as men. I think she’ll prove they can be even better.

Your family sends their love since you haven’t responded much to their letters. Your mother told me to tell you that you better make it home, and that if she has to bury another son before her, that she will march up to Hitler and knock his lights out herself – then stomp his balls into paste to make him squeal for mercy – before she finds a way to bring you back so that she can drag you home by your ear. I don’t think she’s kidding either. Not that she won’t find a way to do exactly those things. Your mother is honestly the scariest person I have ever met.

I want you to take care of yourself, Bucky; I’m the one that does stupid shit, not you. Don’t you dare go channeling me. Come back to me alive, or I’ll go find you and bring you back to life just so I can kill you myself.

Til the end of the line,

Stephanie Rogers

~

 _The_ Солдат _had informed them of a Mission where their target had said_ his _name._

_(“ . . Sergeant Barnes”_

_The name_ Barnes _, it felt_ right _, like it_ was _his. More than any other name they’d collected over the years.)_

 _Because this target had_ known _them-_ him _._

 _The_ Солдат _had cared little for how the target had been_ familiar _, and only cared that the man hadn’t been surprised to see_ them _. Not just that they’d be sent for him, but that_ he _was_ alive.

 _They had been confounded by that, because they couldn’t keep track of how_ long _it’d been since they’d last put in the Chair, nor how long it’d been since the Ice-Box had returned them to Hydra, so how long it’d been since they’d become the_ Солдат _was impossible for them to keep track of._

 _All they knew was that it had been_ many _years – had been_ decades _._

 _They hadn’t been awake for all those years, but enough of them that they should have aged – should have aged like that man, with wrinkles and lines on his face, hair white and thinning, because he_ remembered _the face of the man when he was_ young _, hair dark and full and skin smooth – but they hadn’t. They were the same as they had always been._

 _But regardless of how long it had been, they knew whoever he’d been – he’d_ long _been assumed dead._

 _(He remembered a train, cold air whipping at his skin, a man yelling for him, then falling – falling into the snow and_ pain _._

 _He_ should have _been dead.)_

_They’d collected papers from the target’s trunk before burning them._

_(Not on orders, but_ against _orders. The orders had been to retrieve them if they found any, but their hands had crumbled the paper when they caught sight of a name, and they were moving before they could think because_ I won’t let them get their hands on _him.)_

 _Somehow – though it was undoubtedly why they’d been sent – the man had figured out that if they could survive being put on ice without any other specialized equipment that the capsule – and the_ Солдат _was_ very _interested in how he’d managed to find out about them, if he hadn’t been a part of Hydra – than Captain America –_ Steve – _could have survived his own nose-dive into the northern Atlantic._

 _That_ Steve _could have_ survived _his plane crash into freezing waters if he didn’t drown._

 _They didn’t think Steve_ had _drowned – there was a flash of a memory of a big blonde man recklessly driving beside him before the jeep careened off a bridge into deep waters, and they’d survived_ that _– but_ something _was keeping Steve._

 _There_ had _to be something, otherwise that_ punk _would be raising hell for someone for some reason or another somewhere and_ everyone _would know about it._

 _Among those papers had been more information on the last known location of the Handler – for_ Steve – _enough to give the bits and pieces they’d been collecting all these years some_ context _._

 _Soon, they’d_ find _the Handler – all they needed was a_ single _opportunity to escape._

~

The next day Agent Carter picked Steve up early in the morning from Camp Lehigh, and soon they were driving through the streets of Brooklyn.

This was the first time they’d been alone together since Steve had met her, with all the other recruits gone and Dr. Erskine having left ahead of them to finish getting things ready while Colonel Phillips would follow later. He’d admired her since she’d put Hodge in his place – a part of him also finding her attractive since then, _thanks, Bucky_ – and he’d tried to compliment her.

 _Tried_ being the operative word, because he didn’t think it came out like he meant to; as he’d complimented her on her strength of character, her sharp edges, her self-confidence and refusal to take anyone’s else’s shit. She’d smiled when he’d called her beautiful, though.

The smile had quickly become a series of concerned winces as he’d recognized where they were, and had commented on it, “I know this neighborhood.” – pointing out the car window – “I got beat up in that alley.” – to a corner outside a soda fountain. – “And over there.” – to a side-street blocked by a garbage truck – “And there.”

He didn’t even realize that he’d started commenting on the familiarity of practically every alley they passed for one fight or another right away, not until she looked at him quizzically, “Did you have something against running away?”

It distracted him for pointing out that he’d given as good as he got in most of those fights despite his stature.

His lips had quirked, and he didn’t know it was a touch sad even as his chin lifted up defiantly, “Once you start running, they’ll never let you stop. You stand up, you push back . . they can only tell you no for so long, right?”

Then his eyes had crinkled up, flashing a hint of teeth, because for every fight he’d fought, he’d never had to fight them alone; Bucky had been there, and had his back.

( _Eventually, after they’d been on the European front and she’d asked why’d he stood there and fought an unwinnable battle, he’d grinned with bloody teeth while Bucky had pulled shrapnel from his back before the wounds had healed entirely around them, he’d told her of how his Ma had taught him to never run, that there was no running when the_ bean sidhe _screamed for you, you’d only die tired._

 _His mother had taught him to fight to the end, because the_ bean sidhe _was only a herald. He’d had Death dodge his steps so much of his life, that he’d long since stopped being afraid of dying – death was just the beginning of a new Path._

 _It hadn’t been until that he’d tried to drink an entire bar dry in his grief that he thought she understood_ why _he’d fight to stand his ground so hard. It hadn’t just been about fighting for what was right, but because Bucky was there beside him, and he’d stand_ with _Bucky_ until the end of the line _. With him gone, he’d tried to drink his way into an early grave despite knowing the serum made getting drunk impossible, because when Bucky had_ needed _him to fight, when he’d thought he’d heard the_ bean sidhe _scream for his friend, that for the one fight that had ever_ mattered _, he’d_ lost _._ )

He remembered that the rest of the ride with Agent Carter had been in awkward silence, before they’d come to a stop in front of an antiques store.

He didn’t recognize it, “Why did we stop here?”

“I love a bargain.” Her grin had been sly, and he’d laughed because it was very _come along and see_ , like when Bucky’d had a surprise he’d thought he’d like. It had left him with a fluttering in his chest, and warmth suffusing across his cheeks as he’d followed her out of the car.

( _Later, she’d would nonchalantly, seemingly out of nowhere – but not, because he’d been staring longingly after Bucky as he’d laughed at something Jaq had said with lots of flailing gestures and_ boom _noises – she’d comment that he had a_ type _._

 _He’d spluttered and she’d laughed, loudly when Bucky seemed to all but teleport to his side a moment later, with a shit-eating grin and something to the effect of how it was good she’d noticed too – which was the_ closest _they’d ever come to actually_ saying _what they_ were _._

God, _he’d loved them both despite them doing shit like that._ )

An old woman stood behind the counter inside the shop, surrounded by various knickknacks and dusty antiques. Agent Carter had appeared to browse for a moment as he’d trailed after her, not quite sure what she’d been getting at as she’d said, “Wonderful weather this morning.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Yes, but I always carry an umbrella.”

Steve had opened his mouth, about to ask what that was about because she _wasn’t_ carrying an umbrella, but the woman had just nodded, and a door had opened up behind a tapestry near her. His mouth had closed with a click as he’d realized the seemingly trivial question and answer had been a passphrase like Agent Carter was a _spy_.

A real-life spy like _Bart Regan_.

(He’d purposely ignored how he’d done a similar thing when he’d been running alcohol for the mafia. Even if the alley outside _had_ been one of his pick-up spots.

It was so much _cooler_ when it was _spy-work._ )

He followed her through the door, where a secret staircase was waiting that they then followed down and through another door – right into the Strategic Scientific Reserve Rebirth lab.

It was a giant space, far larger than the store above, illuminated by bright lights and bustling with activity. In the center of the ultramodern area, technicians were gathered around different kinds of machinery, consulting with each other as they pulled levers and flipped switches while a group of engineers manned a row of monitors that beeped constantly with information as they ran through final checks.

Agent Carter led him through all that, to a room set up to the side.

Then it had been test after test, from morning to evening as a small team of doctors documented everything about his condition _prior_ to the serum.

(It was the _needles_ that got to him during all that; memories of too much time getting shots, of having his blood drawn, of being hooked up to machines, swirling in his head.)

Dr. Erskine explained it as them needing a medical baseline, but that didn’t make it any easier to stand when he _knew_ he’d had a _very_ well documented medical history even before Dr. Erskine had collaborated it at Camp Lehigh.

He’d _seen_ his own medical file; it had been easily as thick as _Bucky’s_ wrist was. So, it didn’t make any sense to him for them to have to do more and more tests, when pretty much any test that they could run on him _had_ been run at one point or another.

( _He never did find out that Dr. Erskine had edited out how he’d been_ dying _from those test records because he’d wanted him to have this chance_ before _he found another way to the front, but the other doctors had_ known _they were missing_ something _from their records. They kept testing because they were looking but they couldn’t find it when Dr. Erskine was_ right there _._ )

It gradually made him think that they were screwing with him, trying to get him to quit, and it got _hard_ to resist the urge to give the next one to stick him with an _unnecessary_ needle a knuckle sandwich. _Particularly_ because they refused to tell him what exactly they were testing _for_ , and they didn’t want to show him the test results.

Luckily, it seemed like they were working on a time limit for their tests and they had to stop when Dr. Erskine whisked him away at the end of the day. Dr. Erskine had winked as he’d pulled out a bottle of scotch, and they’d spent this night too, drinking.

( _Steve had always been_ fairly _sure that he’d ranted about the awfulness of needles, among other things. One of those ‘other things’_ might _have been the Japanese Internment camps springing up; he had vague memories of ranting about inequalities._

 _He really didn’t_ remember _any of_ that _very well though._

 _He_ did _remember telling Dr. Erskine that he didn’t care_ what _he had to do, what he had to_ endure _, as long as he got to the European front where Bucky was. The risk of dying due to the serum had been acceptable in his eyes._ Particularly _because he had_ maybe _a week left, and the war_ wasn’t _going to end anywhere soon enough for him to see Bucky unless_ he _went to_ him _._

 _The doctor had been less than comfortable at his declaration, but they’d been drunk enough that Steve didn’t doubt that neither of them would remember much of what he’d said. Even still though, he hadn’t said aloud what he’d known since he was eight. It had been a secret that he’d intended to take to his grave – and ultimately,_ had _– if saying anything would have meant making Bucky’s life a living hell if anyone else heard._

 _Even knowing that Bucky_ wouldn’t _have cared one little bit about anyone besmirching his name, and he would have been fine showing_ anyone _his fists if they’d_ tried _to make their lives hell. Steve was pretty sure that Bucky was willing to fistfight a_ god _if they tried to tell him how to live his life_ other _than how_ he _wanted, let alone if they tried to give him grief over it._

_In the years that had followed, he wondered what Dr. Erskine would have thought of him loving another man if he’d said anything then, if he would have supported him._

_Not until long after did he think he had an answer to that question, once he remembered a little more of that night. When he remembered what Dr. Erskine had said part of the reason why he’d ultimately left Germany was – why he’d been so ready to flee the country even before the serum had gotten involved and he’d_ had _to – had been because he’d once had a little brother. A brother that had been a bit queer, and fallen in love with his best friend, but had gotten caught not long after Hitler had come to power – and both boys had fought the SS during their arrest, and had been gunned down in the street for it._ )

After Dr. Erskine passed out, he’d started another letter to Bucky, one that even drunk as he was, he had never sent – had instead burned – because he’d been unable to let the words leave him.

(Bucky, I love you. Always have. Always will.)

Those words had given him the strength to push through his unease when he entered the lab again in the morning, hungover and not having slept a wink the night before as he’d dreamed with eyes wide open of a life where they both survived the war and could _be_. Everyone turned to stare at him as he came into the room. He couldn’t help smiling self-consciously at them before making a b-line to where Dr. Erskine – who did _not_ look _much_ better than him after their drinking, but he at least mostly just looked a little pale instead of like the walking dead like he did – stood next to a large mechanical assembly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw there was a film crew setting up in a different part of the lab as well, while above them was an observation booth with several serious-looking men inside talking amongst themselves.

Agent Carter came over for a moment to tell him that the man with salt-and-pepper hair was Senator Brandt, and that he’d had helped the SSR get funding for this serum experiment. She didn’t have to say he was here to see that his money had been well spent, and that he should make a good showing to prove him _wrong_ about whatever opinions he had of him.

She gave his shoulder a squeeze with a silently mouthed _good luck_ when Colonel Phillips showed up and called for her, and they went up to the observation booth.

Dr. Erskine then informed him that the machine he’d approached was the Rebirth device, which would be how he’d get the serum that would make him _more_.

(Unspoken was how they were both aware if he survived, it could also _save his life_ , as Steve could _see_ the _bean sidhe_ up there in the observation deck watching them.

It would be hard to miss the woman in white hiding amongst all those darkly dressed men.)

The device had a kind of human-shaped recess that the rest of it centered on, then surrounded by rows of brackets and straps and all kinds of medical-looking instruments and machines.

With a deep breath, he stepped inside and found a series of needles set to slide into his skin.

“Comfortable?” Dr. Erskine asked and Steve almost said _as much as I can be with all these needles_ , but he was very aware of their audience and just nodded.

Dr. Erskine’s smile said that he had understood what he hadn’t said anyway – like he _remembered_ him saying that he _really_ didn’t like needles – and he’d had a moment of panic as the older man had turned to the attendants standing at the ready, that he _hoped to God_ that he hadn’t said anything about his feelings for Bucky.

It was for just a moment though as the attendants began to hook him up to various wires, tubes, and monitors that would help Dr. Erskine observe his reactions as the experiment proceeded, before the instinctive panic faded because Dr. Erskine wasn’t acting any different. If he had said something, he wasn’t the least bit disturbed by it, and it let him relax a little despite the _needles_.

“How are your levels, Mr. Stark?”

Steve hadn’t noticed before, but Howard Stark was here too – settled right in like he belonged with all the other men at the monitors.

“Coils are at peak. Levels are one hundred percent. We’re ready.” He paused for a moment as he looked his way, away from the microphone set up near him so they didn’t hear him say, “As we’ll ever be.”

Steve was starting to get a little nervous, even if Dr. Erskine seemed to have expected that, and didn’t pause as he picked up a microphone that would carry his words into the observation booth, and spoke into it, “Today, we take the first step on the path of peace.”

A heart monitor began to beep in time with Steve’s heart then, and it was hard to not hear how it beat not quite steady.

“The serum will cause immediate cellular change. And in order to prevent uncontrolled growth, the subject will then be saturated with Vita-Rays.”

Steve remembered then a little bit of the night before, when Dr. Erskine had said that most of this procedure was a show, a bluff to hide the _one_ component needed to take a latent serum – which would take him to the limits of what a man was capable of naturally – and activate it into beyond those limits, before admitting that it was the _activation_ that made the procedure dangerous.

He guessed this was the _dangerous_ part, and his heart started to race.

Dr. Erskine then turned off the microphone and turned to a nurse, who lifted up a case that she laid out in front of the doctor. Then she grabbed the available aluminum syringe, and pulled from a small vial until she had enough, tapped it a few times, pulled the plunger until the liquid inside dribbled out, then injected him in the arm.

Steve smiled a little once she was done, “That wasn’t so bad.”

“ _That_ was penicillin.” Dr. Erskine returned it, before a panel next to him slid back and he started pulling blue vials from the case and setting them into the carousel there. In the end there was only one of the seven vials that stayed inside the case, before Dr. Erskine locked the case up and waved another technician forward.

He started setting the series of needles – injector pads with hundreds of tiny needle tips all as long as one of his fingernails – lightly all over his body along all the major muscles.

“Beginning serum infusion in five, four, three, two . . one.”

Steve couldn’t help the jerk he gave as the injector pads pressed down on him after Dr. Erskine pressed a switch. Though he couldn’t _see_ it, he could _feel_ how the blue fluid flowed into the injectors into him, and it _hurt_.

It hurt like a _bad day_ as his veins began to swell and he started to shake as the fluid swept through him, attacking everything wrong with him.

Dr. Erskine hit another button and padded restraints rose up from behind him to stabilize his head, and the shaking calmed some even as his eyes started to faintly glow blue with streaks of unearthly _green_. After a moment as the vials finished emptying inside him, Dr. Erskine turned away from him to address the loaned inventor, “Now, Mr. Stark.”

Stark pulled a lever, and a panel slid over top Steve, sealing him inside as the small window let him see outside it. Dr. Erskine smiled reassuringly at him with a small wink, and he realized the show was set to begin.

Stark looked at him again, and gave his own reassuring nod before moving to the control panel. A piercing whine filled the air as Stark turned a power dial, before on a big gauge, a needle began to climb.

As it ten, then twenty, Steve tensed as it suddenly felt like there was hot steel inside his veins, spread out throughout his body, spreading with each heartbeat. As the needle hit twenty, Steve squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip as it started to _hurt_ – and he could _feel_ his lungs, his heart, _strengthen_.

The heart monitor started to beep rapidly as his lip started to bleed beneath his teeth while he could _feel_ his spine straighten out, and he could _feel_ his muscles grow so that every action that had been a Trial, wasn’t a gamble with an asthma or heart attack; it was a _cleansing_ sort of pain. Then he was sweating and harshly panting through his nose, but it didn’t hurt like anything he’d felt before; it hurt _worse_ – like he’d been thrown down the nine levels of Dante’s hell and now he was clawing his way back up, but with every level he climbed, he could _feel_ himself grow _stronger_.

(There had been a whisper in his ear about how if he _survived_ this, then he would strong enough to protect Bucky from _anything_.

The whisper had almost sounded like funeral bells.)

A green glow surrounded Steve, before green sparks leapt from his skin, traveling up and down him, sinking in.

As the needle hit ninety, Steve let out a piercing _scream_ when the pain became too much to hide – then the glow grew brighter.

“Kill the reactors!”

Steve heard Dr. Erskine yell that, and Steve immediately refused, speaking through gritted teeth, “No. I can . . do this.”

He _remembered_ feeling like if he just suffered this, it would be _worth it_. He would suffer anything – any pain, any loss – if it meant that he be at Bucky’s side. He would have challenged _Death_ for just another day with Bucky, so this pain was _nothing_.

(Unaware then that Death herself was already there, watching, amused.)

A sharp whine had split the air after a moment, and the chamber had flashed to a blinding white – then went dark.

Steve had opened his eyes to silence, only to meet the green eyes of a woman peering in through the window. She’d laughed, and it had sounded like the bell tolling at a funeral, before she was reaching unheeded by the metal for him, grasping him by the back of the head, “ _Now_ you have the body to match your spirit. Use it wisely, young one.”

He’d blinked and then she was gone as he heard only the heart monitor.

_Beep, beep, beep._

It took a couple more blinks to clear the light from his eyes when the panel door slid open, and he’d been looking down at a smiling Dr. Erskine. Which was when he realized that he was two heads taller, and twice as tall, his body built like Adonis as he looked down at himself.

(He’d been quick to stifle the mix of emotions he’d felt at that before anyone else could see.

All he’d wanted was to _not_ be on the verge of dying every other breath, for every season to not try and kill him, for his body to not try to kick the bucket what felt like every other _minute_. He would have been _fine_ if the serum had just brought him to the very limits of man, but what he remembered of Dr. Erskine’s comment the night before about this being a show had implied that just the serum hadn’t guaranteed a delay to his death, and that only by _activating_ it had they stood a chance of giving him _time_. They’d risked his death to buy him _time_ to actually get to Bucky, but being twice over his previous size was _not_ what he’d wanted.)

( _How could he have ever said that this new body, which from the very first_ moment _it had been revealed, everyone_ else _had wanted, was not what_ he _wanted. That he really would have been_ fine _with_ just _a clean bill of health. That once his body was no longer fighting against him, he would have gone and done everything he’d done anyway now that he_ could _._ )

Steve quickly buried the anxiety that came at everyone’s attention on him, unable to be escaped because he was no longer _small_ ; the fear that Bucky would hate his new appearance even if he never said the words; the sorrow that he could never fit under Bucky’s chin again, would never be able to dress as Stephanie _again_.

(He didn’t know how much he would come to _hate_ the serum, but he had felt the first flush of _hate_ then. Hate for what it turned him _into_.)

( _He didn’t know if the serum had been_ worth it _after Bucky had died, because all he had wanted was to be_ healthy _, and he wasn’t sure if all the good he’d done with it equaled out to how much pain and death had been suffered at Azzano, would be suffered by him however long it took_ time _to catch up to him._

 _He could never blame Dr. Erskine for creating it by accident, or refining it later after Schmidt had used it, or even wish that it had never been administered to him – because otherwise, it would have left hundreds if not thousands left in the clutches of Hydra, killed by Hydra; would have left_ Bucky _in their hands._

 _He hated the serum and what it had_ done _to_ him _, hated the avarice and envy that had come from seeing it be unequivocally_ successful, _but he could never regret_ getting _the serum at all._ )

He’d looked at the world with clear eyes for the first time in his memory; the world not slightly blurry, no longer slightly fuzzy, and he was able to _differentiate_ between a whole host of new colors, able to _see_ – see _everything_ in vivid technicolor.

He’d took in as much as he could of what was around him, of the dim lab and the horde of people that had started to crowd him upon seeing his transformation.

(Too late had he realized what he was seeing on Dr. Erskine’s face, with the tired relief was: _my job is done now_.)

The scent of antiseptic and sweat and dust was heavy in his nose, as if it had been rubbed in it. He could hear the appreciative and excited murmurs in the very back part of the room, even in the observation room behind the glass; it was the first time in a long time that he was really hearing _anything_ from the left beyond soft static. His pants were tight and just a bit itchy from where it rubbed against him against his sensitive skin, while the leather cushions by his head were _smooth_ and the straps holding him in were too _tight_.

“You did it, Doctor!” Stark was particularly wide-eyed, smiling as he moved to unstrap Steve so he could take an unsteady step out of the contraption, “You really did it!”

(Steve was _pretty_ sure that Stark was touching him _way_ more than necessary as he did so, with the faintest bit of color rising to the tips of his ears.

It reminded him of the girls at the Stark Expo that had been touching up Bucky’s arms.)

Agent Carter gently – but _firmly_ – shoved the other man to side once Steve was loose, holding out a hand for him to steady himself with, “How do you feel?”

He could feel himself start to color as she led him to a chair off to the side, before smiling “Taller.”

(Maybe it wasn’t what he wanted, and if he could go _back_ to the size and shape he’d been, he _would_ , but from where he was, he _couldn’t_ miss the faint touch of color to Agent Carter’s cheeks, the almost rogue-ish twist to her lips as she smiled back, and he knew _she_ thought he looked _good_.

It gave him hope that maybe Bucky would too.)

( _After the shock of his own rescue, after they were on their way from Azzano, once they were back in camp, Bucky_ did _._

 _There had been a quick up-and-down look he’d been getting familiar with on the circuit that said_ daaaaamn, he’s good-lookin’ _, and he’d blushed redder than the flag to see it on_ Bucky’s _face. He’d dismissed it then, because this body was attractive to pretty much_ anyone _, even straight men and queer women._ )

While everyone was eager to see the results of Project Rebirth and congratulate each other over its success, no one noticed one of the men from the observation booth make his way into the lab right away.

Steve only started to turn his way because following on that man’s heels was Colonel Phillips, and it was reflex now to start to straighten up and salute at the sound of his heavy tread, “Stop!”

The unknown man was in a suit, and wore glasses, but they couldn’t obscure the _hate_ in his eyes as he looked directly at Dr. Erskine, who looked right back, “Kruger”

Then the _bean sidhe_ wailed, and Steve flinched at the sound of her _scream_ before his eyes widened because he hadn’t noticed – he’d assumed that she was there for him, that the Morrigan was watching _him_ – but both had been when he’d stood next to _Dr_. _Erskine_. Now he could _see_ the Morrigan come closer, then land on the older man’s shoulder unseen.

As people turned to look towards Colonel Phillips’ shout, the man pulled out a lighter.

Only instead of a wick, Steve saw a button.

An evil smile started to spread across the man’s face, and as Agent Carter started to pull out her gun, he pressed down on the button and threw it right into the midst of the technicians still near the Rebirth device.


	20. but through choices.

“No!”

Steve realized in a fraction of a heartbeat that he was too far away and his limbs out of sync with his shaky, too new body to do much of anything about the grenade. Still, he put himself between Agent Carter and the grenade as she pulled Stark behind her.

Then the room exploded.

It was first a flash of light so bright that Steve was blinded, followed by a loud _bang!_

For a long moment all he saw were glimmers of shadows amongst the white, and his ears were ringing.

Vaguely, as if from a distance even if he _knew_ they weren’t more than twenty feet away, he could hear the quiet whispers of people yelling, crying. Then his vision started to come back, the shadows growing darker, more distinct as the white started to recede.

The first thing he noticed once it did was that the lab was full of smoke from the sparking equipment that had caught the brunt of the blast, because his eyes were stinging.

Steve saw the moment where Dr. Erskine straightened from where he’d crouched hidden behind the table he’d knocked over, directly facing the man who’d thrown the lighter-grenade, “ _Heinz_ ”

(It hadn’t clicked then how Dr. Erskine _knew_ his killer, personally.

All that _had_ was how his gaze hadn’t just been unsurprised, but _expectant_.)

Kruger’s face twisted in a sneer before he was pulling out a pistol and shot the older man in the chest.

Agent Carter fired seconds later, as the man bent behind the table to pick something off the floor by Dr. Erskine. She shot at Kruger again as he made his escape with the last remaining vial of serum, chasing after him.

Steve scrambled ungainly to Dr. Erskine’s side as the man laid out on the floor, bleeding out, _dying_ , because he’d been too _slow_.

(Because he hadn’t realized that Dr. Erskine had just been waiting for Death to come to him with open arms. Because his new body wasn’t listening to him, and he felt like a newborn colt, all leg and no strength. Because Dr. Erskine had smiled at Kruger like a friend come to see him one last time, and he welcomed whatever brought him to his door – even if he brought _death_ with him. Because the Morrigan had dug her claws in now, and no soul escaped her grasp once she had a hold.)

Dr. Erskine looked up at _him_ and _smiled_ , soft and gentle before his mouth opened as if trying to speak but blood blubbered up over his lips instead of words. One of his hands reached up then as the other cradled the Morrigan to his chest where she sat atop his wound, like he was going to grab at him, before he tapped Steve hard just to the left of his sternum, right over his heart.

_Remember your promise. Stay who you are – a good man._

He nodded even as the doctor’s eyes started to lose focus with a crinkle at the corners to a point just to the left of his face, catching his hand so that he knew he wasn’t alone in the end even if he couldn’t offer the same comfort that he’d given his mother.

Steve thought Dr. Erskine looked _at peace_ with his death, _ready_ _to_ _die_ even as he felt how the older man’s heartbeat started to slow and stutter and begin to fade through the thin skin of his wrist.

( _He’d recognized as the_ Valkyrie _had gone down that Dr. Erskine had been waiting at the door for Death, waiting for Her to guide him to where his heart had gone on ahead of him._

 _Dr. Erskine had called him a good man, but Dr. Erskine had always been a_ better _man than him, living and not just existing._

 _All_ he’d _been able to was wait for his body to catch up._ )

Then Dr. Erskine closed his eyes and was gone.

There had been a ghost of a touch on his left shoulder as someone leaned over him, and _green_ had shimmered on the edge of his vision as the world had held its breath between one heartbeat and the next; the whole world paused except for him.

(A woman had reached out her hand from behind him, then Dr. Erskine was grasping it with wide smile, saying a name he couldn’t hear then he was _gone_.)

Time caught up then.

For another moment, Steve didn’t know what to do: Dr. Erskine was dead, the lab was in shambles, and a spy was racing off with the last vial of serum.

Then the rage Bucky had _often_ commented on – calling him fifty pounds of rage in a ten-pound bag when he picked fights he couldn’t win – but he’d always done his best to defuse or redirect _before_ , it _now_ bubbled up and spilling over out of his control.

Dr. Erskine had died for _no_ _good_ _reason_ , and it made him _angry_.

He saw Kruger heading for the second door, throwing it open to step into the antiques shop. The old woman had her machine gun in hand and fired at him as he rushed out, stumbling at the door as his arm was clipped rapid-fire, then crashing through the storefront window when Agent Carter shot at him again.

His eyes focused on the man with a snarl twisting his lips, as an unearthly baying echoed in his ears, and as he jumped to his feet, he saw out of the corner of his eye a great black dog-wolf nearly as big as him peel out of his shadow with its ghosting three pairs of crimson eyes fixed on Kruger.

(His mother’s stories of the Old World still rang in his ears so many years after her death.

So often it was just the _bean sidhe_ screaming upon the hour of death, and the Morrigan coming thrice in a moon before ferrying the dead to the other side in her talons. But there was _another_ also sent by Death.

The hound that hunted the damned and devoured their soul. The child of Fenrir, who carried Death into the end, and Cerberus, who guarded the lands of the dead.

The Grim.)

He _knew_ what it was, and _why_ it had come.

It settled his rage some, for even if he was still angry, he knew that even if the man somehow escaped – escaped _mortal_ justice – that the Grim _would_ catch him. The Grim would deliver justice for a senseless murder.

As it bounded forward, he shook off the colt-like stumbling to match its long loping run as Kruger pulled a driver out of a taxicab that had slowed at the sound of gunshots in the area.

Agent Carter took another shot at him, and Kruger ducked gracelessly, clutching his ruined arm, bleeding everywhere, before he took a blind shot in her vague direction.

Then a car behind her exploded into flames as with a squeal of tires, Kruger peeled out into the street.

Steve followed the Grim as it chased Kruger, chasing after the man with a single-minded purpose. He didn’t notice right away the ease of how he ran, of how he could _breathe_ , of how strong and calm his heart remained as he went down street after street; he just kept chasing.

The thing was, this was _Brooklyn_ ; he _knew_ these streets. There probably wasn’t a person other than Bucky that knew all these tiny side-streets and narrow alleyway as well as him for all the fights he’d picked in them.

He didn’t hesitate to dart down a narrow alley for a shortcut. His eyes narrowed at the new chain fence blocking the street entrance on the other side, before he leapt up to catch a foot in a ring with his hands outstretched to catch the top.

Only to sail over top of it.

He stumbled the landing but quickly got his footing as Kruger passed by, just a step ahead of the Grim. It grinned with all of its many sharp teeth when he looked aside at it when it put on a burst of speed to catch up, and he matched it.

He could see Kruger’s eyes widen at the sight, darting side to side in panic before he losing what little color that he had left with a growing pool of blood soaking the seat beneath him, when he _saw_ the Grim.

The buildings rushed by as Kruger drove on, heading toward the piers and still he _chased_.

He pushed himself harder – _faster_ – until he wasn’t just keeping pace, he was catching on the car. With a snarl, he lunged for the back of the car and dug his fingers around the bumper as the Grim leapt for the roof. The wheels squealed and smoked as they span uselessly against the ground, the scent of rubber burning in the air before with a _heavy_ thud the Grim landed on the roof, nails scratching at the metal and cutting deep groves nearly all the way through.

Kruger’s eyes went wild at seeing the Grim in its entirety as its head(s) bowed over the windshield, snapping sharp teeth that seemed to extend endlessly when looked at straight on, raising his gun and shooting point-blank but the Grim didn’t even flinch. It just grinned as it caught the bullets in its teeth, crushing them, before hopping down just as the bumper broke free and the car shot forward with all of its built-up speed.

They quickly continued in pursuit.

Kruger kept looking back at him as he barely kept a step ahead, cab wobbling and shaking and bouncing, before his eyes narrowed and he let go of the wheel to point his gun at him.

Then a truck came barreling down on them. Steve ducked to the side, hand darting forward and punching through glass to grasp a door and pull the cab with him. They were side-swiped instead of flattened as he ducked to avoid the gunshot. Which sent them into a roll, and the world spun as the cab flipped over and over again, before finally coming to a stop, its hood smoking.

Steve stumbled to his feet a few feet away from the wreckage, having let go at some point during the barrel-roll, but Kruger had been sent bouncing around inside the cab, and he hardly moved from where he was sprawled looking half-dead. As Steve approached with the Grim at his side, Kruger’s gaze wasn’t focused enough to aim as blood drooled out past his lips, but the man still lifted the gun he’d clung to and aimed.

Steve wrenched the cab door off its loose hinges and held it up in front of him like a shield, and most of the wild shots bounced off the metal, ricocheting harmlessly the short distance between him and Kruger. Others embedded themselves in the steel as the rest clattered against the ground.

Kruger kept firing though.

Their high-speed chase had taken them right down to the piers, which on a sunny day like this, was filled with people catching the sights and enjoying the afternoon. Seeing the commotion, some of them began snapping pictures of the gunfight, mistaking it for entertainment.

(For a moment, he thought he saw _Ana_ in the crowd – thought he heard her exclaim, “ _Steve??!_ ” – with her eyes narrowed and gleaming like gold as she _looked_ at Kruger with threats spewing from her tongue.)

A crowd gathered as he slowly approached, head peaking out as the gun made a rasping _click-click-click_ once it ran out of bullets. His eye caught a glimpse of a shattered vial, its shards spilled all over the seat.

Kruger himself grinned bloody then, his eyes wide and fearful as they looked at the Grim ambling its way closer, stopping right next to him with its head(s) coming up to just shy of his shoulder, two of them like smoke as they twisted and turned to look any and every direction all at once in ways more befitting a snake. Steve narrowed his eyes at him, “Who are you?”

“The first of many.” He bit down on something, “Cut off one head and two more shall rise.”

Steve could only helplessly watch as the man’s body began to shake and mouth started to foam, before the Grim lunged forward with a snarl, its jaws clamping down on his chest, “Hail Hyd-!!”

The Grim practically swallowed him whole from above and below as the second and third pairs of jaws struck out, then there was a sickening _crunch_. A blood-curdling scream ripped out of the man’s throat as the Grim tore out his soul and devoured it before he’d drawn his last breath.

 _[Steve’s eyes opened up in the depths with a ragged breathless gasp as he thought of the Grim. He’d drowned again as he met calm red eyes, waiting for direction as Kruger’s last words –_ cut off one head and two more shall rise _– echoed in his head._

 _The time to sleep was ending; the time to_ hunt _was beginning.]_

~

_“Sergeant Barnes”_

_The ghost of dozens of memories came forward at the name, but there was one that was stronger than all the rest. He didn’t remember everything, the details lost to him, but he_ remembered _being captured, having been tortured._

_Repeating his name, his rank, his ID number over and over as blue light washed over him, a red-eyed crow watching, a woman’s cool skeletal hand patting at his cheek and whispering something._

_He_ remembered _Steve showing up then, bigger than he thought he should have been._

 _The_ Солдат _was not pleased by certain details as the memory cleared some with an immense amount of effort, because that memory was_ important _. Then they could_ see _how Steve’s uniform was of thinner material, shaped differently, colored too bright,_ clearly _not official. A helmet sat loosely on his head, looked flimsy in such a way that he_ knew _that little Steve could have punched it and broke it. There was a wooden_ shield _, compromised by a large crack down the middle, slung on his back, while the gun at his waist was_ German _-make._

 _The_ Солдат _was not pleased because Steve had been ill-prepared for enemy territory, either sent in without any sort of support, or he’d gone AWOL to get to him. The_ Солдат _thought either way, that the Handler had been_ reckless _._

 _He didn’t need to_ remember _to_ know _that Steve had been reckless because he hadn’t been there to curb it._

 _The_ Солдат _felt almost_ smug _though at the proof that the Handler would_ not _abandon them, disregarding_ orders _to do so even, even if they also felt_ concerned _at_ how _._


	21. and end comes for everyone -

_[The ice was shifting above him, the ground beneath him making a slow_ schick-schick-schick _noise like metal dragging across something like bone, something like stone._

 _The_ Valkyrie _was being raised on serpent scales as large as New York City, dragging the plane up and away from the deep, frozen waters of the near-Artic._

_Something churned the water above him, knocking through thinning ice, and a shadow moved slowly over him.]_

_Steve had been waking for longer and longer, more and more often as the_ Valkyrie _drifted into warmer waters. There was still an icy lethargy in his limbs holding him still, but a_ rage _boiled beneath his skin._

_Slowly, ever so slowly, he moved one finger, a hand, an arm, stretching them out towards where his shield waited for him to take it up again, both his weapon and his armor._

_Even beneath the water, he could almost_ hear _the baying of the Grim, calling for him, calling for him to begin the Hunt. Its howl promising vengeance and justice and retribution if he could just_ wake _fully._

~

Steve didn’t go far from Kruger’s body as the Grim bowed his head(s) at him, then slipped back into the shadows between them. He was looking at where the man’s face had contorted in terror as he died without actually seeing it. The Grim had cut him off mid-word, but there were only so many words that began with _hyd_. There was only one that made _cut off one head and two more shall rise_ make _sense_.

Hydra; the Greek monster killed by Heracles categorized by its many heads and its near-invincibility. The name of the group Kruger had belonged to, was Hydra.

He wondered if now that they had failed to get their hands on the serum, if they would come after him.

( _They hadn’t, not until he’d gotten overseas, not until he’d declared war on them by raiding and destroying Azzano. He’d always wondered_ why.)

Agent Carter had found him just as he’d started to notice how he was being watched by the crowd loosely circling the scene.

(He met Ana’s gaze through all those people, as he’d been gently led away and SSR had taken command of the scene. Her eyes had been pure gold as she’d eyed his shadow, like she _knew_ what even now hid there, the echo of its howl rippling the fathomless darkness at his feet.)

Once they were back inside the backdoor of the antique shop, she began briefing him on the situation. Without her saying a word, he’d already known that the loss of Dr. Erskine had been bad, but he’d underestimated _how_ bad. Not when it would be a race to beat Hydra to creating another supersoldier, that if Hydra managed to fix the prototype that had affected Schmidt before they could replicate Project Rebirth, then they’d lose this war.

(Agent Carter hadn’t seemed surprised though that all of Dr. Erskine’s research had been destroyed, so he thought she knew that the doctor hadn’t _wanted_ to create any more soldiers than necessary to counter Schmidt; that he hadn’t wanted to create more than _one_.)

As the day progressed, the situation seemed to get worse and worse, and Agent Carter’s face got grimmer with each update. Not only had Dr. Erskine died, and with him any hope of replicating the experiment that had transformed Steve, but they’d figured out that Kruger had managed to sneak in amongst Senator Brandt’s entourage.

Because of that – and how despite that, he’d been unharmed during the explosion – Senator Brandt didn’t leave SSR HQ as Agent Carter went out to find out _how_ that had happened.

Steve tried to stay out of the way, but an aide summoned him to join the Senator and Colonel Phillips, who were in the middle of a heated discussion. As he approached, he could hear the Colonel pace heavy-footed as he heatedly championed an aggressive defense, to go after Hydra _before_ they came for him.

“I asked for an army!” The Senator turned towards him as the door opened, as the other man continued, “All I got was _one man_. It’s _not_ enough!”

Colonel Phillips looked to have aged years in a day, his uniform slightly disheveled and shadows under his eyes from where he’d been kept awake trying to get a handle on this situation before it imploded entirely.

Senator Brandt smiled at him before lifting up a newspaper, using his other hand to gesture at him to draw the Colonel’s attention to him, “You’ve seen Steve in action, but more importantly, the _country’s_ seen it.”

Steve read the headline, _Mystery Man Saves Civilians_ , and blushed slightly at the photo of him on the piers using the cab door as a shield while Kruger fired. Curiously though, the Grim wasn’t visible, even if there was a sort of shimmer to the air next to him where it had been.

The man waved the paper in Colonel Phillips’ face, “You don’t take a soldier – a _symbol_ – like this and hide him in a lab.” – before turning towards him with a smile – “Son, do you want to serve your country?”

The smile was practiced, genial, undeniably a politician’s smile, and Steve hesitated at the sight of it before he nodded and the man continued, “On the most important battlefield in this war?”

He’d hesitated because the man had called him a _symbol_ , and that made him doubt the man would send him to the frontlines like he wanted. He’d already come to the realization that they wouldn’t want to risk him like that, not when he was the only one that they had. He’d do whatever he had to, to get them to take a chance on him again, even become living propaganda, if it meant getting _out there_ to where Bucky was, “It’s all I want.”

The Senator’s smile got larger as he walked over and clapped him on the back like they were buddies, not seeming to notice how he shied away a moment later, feeling a little like he’d made a deal with the devil, “Then congratulations. You just got promoted.”

It didn’t take even an hour before an aide was delivering the papers detailing his assignment that would have him selling war bonds on tour as _Captain America_. He’d taken one look at the glorified tights in red-white-and-blue and crumbled them in one hand before he’d confronted Agent Carter and Colonel Phillips over it.

(He’d intentionally disregarded rank, been disrespectful, in the small hope that it would get him court martialed and he’d have his chance to _leave_. He’d do this if he had to, but _only_ if it was just a stepping stone to overseas.)

Agent Carter had pulled him aside before he could get a word out, and asked him to be _patient_.

(Because without him, there was no one to counter Schmidt. He _would_ get out there.)

So, he’d accepted to become a dancing monkey for the moment, but only for the moment. He’d give them six months to send him overseas before he went AWOL.

A few days later, Steve was backstage in a small theater, dressed in those glorified tights – red boots and gloves, a pair of blue pants, and a shirt covered with stars and stripes with an attached half-mask hood with a big white A on front and little white wings on the side – while carrying a cheap wooden shield decorated like the flag. His palms were sweaty and he felt like he was going to be sick to his stomach from nerves as Senator Brandt’s aide told him what he’d do during the show.

The words were going in one ear and out the other, mostly, but he couldn’t help focusing on the aide, Joshua Pierce, a blonde man with his hair shorn short like a soldier’s and blue eyes. He was dressed up in a suit that was nice-looking but not _so_ much to say that he was from _money_ and didn’t quite hide how he was fit, with a blood-red tie and little American flag pins on his lapels.

From what he understood, he just had to walk through the flag and say his lines, and by doing so, he’d _inspire_ people.

Steve didn’t really get _how_ he’d _inspire_ people but before Agent Carter had left to rejoin the war effort overseas, she’d asked that he be patient and play along.

(Because if he wouldn’t make himself a public figure, then his only use was in a lab where they’d tried to find out how Dr. Erskine had made him into _more_.)

Then the show began, and the curtains parted to a bugler walking onto stage blasting out reveille. As the final notes faded, a band joined in and a line of six girls danced across the stage, their legs kicking high in the air. Then they began to sing, and he went red with both horror and embarrassment as he listened, “He’s the star-spangled man with the star-spangled plan. He’s Captain America!”

As they sang out the last word, he took a step closer but couldn’t bring himself to step out. The aide gave him a shove, and he stumbled out past the flag and saw just a handful of kids sitting in the audience.

He blinked, glad that it wasn’t the big crowd Pierce had been waxing lyrical on just a moment ago, before eyeing the cue card that he had pasted onto the back of his shield, “Hello . . uh, folks. Who here is ready to sock evil in the jaw?”

The kids let out a cheer, and Steve felt his shoulders relax. He started to think it might not be so bad if his audience was kids, who appreciated his unscripted sound effects to his fake fist fight with ‘Hitler’.

( _The whole song and dance routine had almost managed to be_ fun _when his audience was solely little kids, who would mime along with his big, over-exaggerated movements and yell out with him the sound effects._

 _Bucky had been deeply amused at how he was teaching kids how to form a fist and throw a punch, and punch bullies in the face, because that was exactly what he did when he could get away with diverging from routine._ )

For the next couple of months, Steve traveled all over the United States performing the show, with the crowds at first, small. He messed up a fair bit, stumbling over his lines, over his own feet, but the girls would cover his mistakes and make it look like a part of the show. Then as the audiences got bigger, and he got better at the little routine, Pierce started having him do more.

When they went to Buffalo, he tripped as the girls pulled him into their dance. In Milwaukee, he stayed on his feet and posed for photos with babies and their mothers.

When they got to San Francisco, he walked through the flag and bent a pole into a red cross, and with a smile, handed it to a nurse in the audience before blushing when she batted her eyes at him.

When they got to Richmond, he started lifting motorcycles with three of the girls on it.

In St. Louis and Chicago, film crews recorded the act, and soon he could see himself on the big screen, and he could see for himself how he could _inspire_ a crowd. Part of him started to buy into the hype, with his own comics and sold-out theaters.

( _He’d just smiled as a young boy in Philadelphia came up to him with pen and paper in hand, eyes wide as he looked up at him, saying, “Hey, Cap, my brother says you took out four German tanks all by yourself.” He’d patted the boy on the head, “Sorry, kid. Tell your brother he’s wrong.” – and then because the boy looked close to tears, he’d rushed to say – “It was_ eight _German tanks.”_

_He’d told Bucky about it in a letter, feeling guilty about buying into his own hype once the show was over._

_Bucky had been less than amused when after he’d yelled at him the first time that he’d challenged a tank by himself, he’d said that he couldn’t go disappointing his fans, before Bucky had asked slightly despairingly if that meant he’d do this another seven times._

_And he had._

_Bucky had_ not _approved._ )

The rest of him thought this was all a joke, a waste of time when he could be on the frontlines, fighting Hydra and saving his fellow soldiers. As such, after performances, he started to pester Pierce over when he’d be shipped out.

(“Just one more time.”)

Pierce kept putting it off.

(“Finish these five cities while I see what I can do to send you overseas.”)

It wasn’t hard to understand _why_. Part of it was that he was doing too good of a job selling war bonds; part of it was that _Pierce_ didn’t actually have the _authority_ to send him, no matter how the man acted. It didn’t mean it wasn’t _frustrating_.

More so when Pierce would say that he was serving his country well like this, _a true symbol of the nation_.

Luckily for the aide, Ely would pop out of the ether and pull him away _before_ he decked the man. Cathy would wink at him as she then dragged him away, and Danny would come out still dressed as Hitler and let the kids practice fighting evil with him/on him, distracting the crowd so that he could slip away.

The girls knew him well after they’d been traveling together in close quarters for the last couple of months, just as well as he got to know them.

Of the seven girls, most of them had varying shades of blonde hair and blue eyes, aside from Danny with their dark hair and eyes, and were all _supposedly_ eighteen but most of them weren’t. Only Elizabeth – Ely – Janet, and Catherine – Cathy – were, while May and Grace were actually fifteen, Kimberly – Kimmy – sixteen, and Danny, seventeen.

(Steve hadn’t asked because if Pierce knew, he would have undoubtedly sent the four youngest home in a split second before ‘it could tarnish Captain America’s reputation’, but he didn’t know how May and Kimmy had passed as eighteen. May had a baby face, the sort where she would be getting carded _well_ into her _thirties_ if she went into a bar, and Kimmy was _tiny_ , barely coming up to the comparably much taller Danny’s _elbow_.)

May spent most of her time not on-stage tinkering with a camera, taking photos of their daily behind-the-scenes life. Always saying that one day, each photo would be worth their weight in gold. Otherwise, she was drawing, sketching their little shows and the other girls in their off time.

In Boston, she helped him get a sketchbook of his own after he’d been caught doodling on diner napkins and the back of discarded flyers. She’d refused to let him give her some of his new wage to pay for it.

Between the two of them, they drew most of the _Captain America_ posters after Agent Carter sent him papers giving him ownership over his own image.

(Because he’d originally had _no_ control over what was being said in his name, and before he’d realized it, there had been lots of posters that he did _not_ approve of flying around.

Becca had shoved one such in his face when he’d been in Philadelphia. That particular one having aimed to send women back into kitchen so the boys too young to be drafted could take their places in the war factories instead of trying to volunteer to go overseas.

He’d been livid over how her efforts had been marginalized, and _in_ _his_ _name_ , and before he’d realized it, he’d reached out to Agent Carter, hoping for some advice – since Pierce had just give him this bland smile like _and what’s the problem with that?_ and he’d almost punched him – and she’d gone ahead and filed for copyright in his name before Senator Brandt could.)

After Richmond though, he’d had to start delegating because it turned out there was a large demand for his face and name to be attached to anything and everything, and it’d quickly become too much. Ely had gotten him in contact with some up-and-coming artists from the Chicago area, and they’d soon taken over the majority of work as he was relegated to screening final products.

Pierce was there for oversight, but he also spent more money keeping them pretty than he did keeping them warm and fed as the seasons started to change. Behind the scenes, Ely ended up turning over most of her wage to manage the necessities of being out on tour, but it wasn’t enough in the long run.

It hadn’t been enough in the short term either, because Steve knew her family back in Chicago had sent her money when she fell short.

In the process of withdrawing a significant portion of his wage to give to Ely because he didn’t need the money and it wasn’t fair that she was paying for most of their bills, he’d found out Bucky had been sending him _his_ pay. In response, he’d cheekily sent a pack of smokes with blood-red lipstick stain on each with a note of ‘this is how your money is being spent, you Jerk’.

( _Bucky had laughed quietly into his ear after they met again about how he’d accidentally sent that as Steve._ )

Ely became their manager, unofficially with how Pierce refused to let her officially, but Steve didn’t let _that_ stop him from handing his union dues to her. The other girls quickly followed suit despite Ely’s protests, then he – or more accurately, _Agent Carter_ , because that woman was scarily _competent_ once she was given a problem to solve and he’d mentioned it to her in a letter, fed up with Pierce – got her made the _official_ union head for the Captain America showgirls.

( _He still treasured the_ face _Pierce made when he found out that all money for them was being given to Ely to manage, and he_ might _have immortalized it on paper._ )

Ely turned out to be just as scarily competent as Agent Carter in her new job.

Steve was _convinced_ that she was a mind-reader, because _always_ knew when he was hiding something.

(He had _no idea_ how she knew otherwise that with his new body came a _greatly_ increased metabolism that meant he could eat enough for _four_ people and _still_ be hungry, but she managed to get him enough that he was at least able to only be hungry and not _hungry_.)

( _Her eyes had damn-near_ twinkled _as she’d said he was welcome to come home with her after the war, to teach her father and some of her others of her_ family _some of his secrets about appearing to be on the right side of the law._ )

Stephanie told Bucky about how Danny dressed up sometimes in a powder-blue suit not unlike one he’d owned to go out on the town with Kimmy, and how Danny sometimes helped him find things to wear in the privacy of his room after they’d caught him applying the lipstick to the smokes.

(He went and found things for Danny in return, because it turned out that they liked to dress a lot like Bucky did and he had a _lot_ of practice on tweaking clothing size to hide and emphasis.)

Kimmy liked to bake at every opportunity, and it had been thanks to her using whatever they’d had on hand to create absolutely delicious things out of nothing that they’d been as well fed as they’d been before Ely officially took over. Then she’d used him as ‘her guinea pig’ for new recipes once Ely gave her the funds, filling an entire notebook of what they adored and what they hated.

( _When the showgirls had left the 107th, Kimmy had given him a copy of all of her recipes with a wink, saying that she’d marked all of his favorites with a star, as Danny had grinned and handed over some clothes and a small make-up kit for Steph._

 _Then Kimmy had hugged him tight and demanded that if whoever held his heart didn’t treat him_ right _, that he send a letter. She’d pulled Danny to her side and given a sharp-toothed grin and said she’d already shown one asshole up, she’d easily take care of another._ )

Cathy kept them all in line in public, the oldest aside from Ely, her eyes sharp and _always_ catching whenever even the smallest piece of their ensembles was out of line. She’d herd them around, fix it up herself, and act like she gave them a stern talking to whenever Pierce was around. She was the one that mended all their clothes, stitching in little swirls and tolts into each mended tear, embroidering stars for any patch-job when Ely couldn’t get them the money for a new costume.

Whenever she’d read aloud letters from her brother giving off the latest theory of their parents for what she was doing, her voice would quiver before cracking as she snorted inelegantly – because the theories were always completely off the wall.

Sometimes he’d join her in the evenings as she went over all their clothes, helping her and her Chicago accent coming out full force as she cracked some morbid jokes.

(Ely and Cathy had been childhood friends, and Cathy had followed her old friend to New York, then to the auditions to be a showgirl.)

It was Cathy that came to his aid when women started to swarm him after a show, batting their eyes and fawning at his muscles. She’d insert herself in front of his uncomfortable form and be the one to tell them off for poaching, acting like his girl when necessary.

( _Peggy had come to a show near the end of their run, to tell him that he was about to get overseas, she’d cleared it. Cathy had played her act as his girl after the show, then after he’d talked to a stiff Peggy, she’d sauntered up, winked at him, then dragged her off for a bit._

 _When they’d come back, they’d been chatting like old friends. Then after the showgirls had split up, Peggy had gotten her a job with the SSR out in the field. Last he’d heard before he’d taken the_ Valkyrie _out, she’d practically been heading the French rebels, leading the charge to drive the Nazi out._ )

Janet spent every spare moment writing, anything and everything.

( _One time, she’d tripped and all of her papers had gone everywhere and as he’d helped picked it up, she’d gone bright red, eyes darting over at him constantly. He hadn’t meant to read any of it after that, because she’d_ clearly _been embarrassed, but he’d accidentally read a line before he could stop himself._

_He’d blinked, re-read it, then kept going as he’d slowly realized it was smut._

_Janet had been mortified until he’d grinned and winked, saying she was better at this than he was. She’d been suspicious until he’d read off some of the lines of his eight-pagers, which she’d then_ recognized _. Then it was his turn to be mortified and she’d grinned._

 _Bucky had just laughed when they’d been out on the front and Peggy had delivered a package from Janet, and he’d blushed two seconds after opening it, realizing it was the completed manuscript of the smutty story he’d seen before. Then he’d read it over with him, critiquing it for him as he’d tried to smother himself with his bedroll._ )

Grace had a head for machines and science in general, reminding him of Evie. She was always tinkering around with one machine or another, working to increase something or another’s efficiency. Otherwise, she was playing around with crosswords, filling them out and sending them in completed for the reward.

( _After he went to the front, she got recruited into code-breaking. It turned out those crosswords were to find code-breakers and she’d done_ more _than good enough, but it had taken until the showgirls were effectively disbanded for her to be tracked down._

 _She’d just been shipped out to the south-west when he’d left with Bucky for their last mission together._ )

He sent a letter to Evie about Grace, because thanks to Bucky’s love of science, he’d learned enough to get the _gist_ but both girls _loved_ science in a way _well_ beyond what he’d understood. He thought Evie would enjoy the chance to talk to someone who _understood_ her passion more than the four or five words out of ten Bucky could understand.

( _Steve had quickly had the feeling that between the two of them, they’d create something like personal phones just so they could talk from across the country from each other without the wait between letters._

 _Bucky had agreed with him._ )

Becca had lectured him for a hot moment about playing matchmaker for Evie – without her. He sent her the contact information for Cathy because Cathy did the same thing, along with lecturing him about how they were grown women, they could make their own friends.

(The two of them had started exchanging letters soon after.

Ana had written a post-script on one of Becca’s letters shortly after practically demanding that he get her in contact with someone too. Ely’s smile had been toothy as she’d penned a letter in response.)

Bucky had been amused by the whole mess. It hadn’t made up for everything _else_ , but seeing Bucky still being an asshole, being _Bucky_ , had helped with how neither of them could talk much about what was going on around them. He didn’t tell Bucky about Pierce’s subtle condescension and blatant disgust over Danny, and Bucky didn’t tell him about fighting, about being in the trenches, of having men die around him.

Bucky instead told him about his unit.

(Told him about how he’d found a college-educated, trilingual radioman in a segregated unit and had him transferred into the 107th before anyone realized what he’d done, and then played dumb over any complaints from his higher-ups about what the _problem_ was. Told him about this big, burly strongman calling Gabe Jones a nigger and how he’d punched the man in the dick. Told him about their unit medic being a second-generation Japanese immigrant with family in an internment camp, and how he reminded him of Sarah with his brisk, no-nonsense attitude and sometimes just plain awful bedside manner with gentle hands.)

( _He’d recognized them even before he’d met them, in Azzano. They’d been locked up in a cage, deep in enemy territory and their response to somebody looking down at them – literally – had been to pick a fight._

 _“What you lookin’ at, blondie? Fuck off!”_ )

It had mirrored how he’d been telling him about the girls in response to how he couldn’t say much either about what he was doing, and those letters from Bucky had kept him grounded as the tour ground on, month after month.

They kept him grounded through all of his other letters; the regular ones from Becca, the irregular from Ana, and the sporadic ones from Evie. Becca’s letters of how she had proven her mettle in Philadelphia, and the other girls in the factory had come to respect her, rely on her. Ana’s letters telling him of how she’d been recruited from Military Communications to Military Intelligence, and how she was working overseas with her MI6 liaison, Edwin Jarvis, who she said was charming and quite the gentleman, treating her like his equal and like a high-born lady. Evie’s letters were half-thankful ramblings for introducing her to Grace for a new reason each week, and half-ramblings of whatever machinery she was currently working on for the war effort, and it made him laugh some as her letters were always a little disjointed, jumping from subject to subject and looking like half-made shopping lists in the middle. He was _proud_ of them but they were _doing_ something when he _wasn’t_ , and it _stung_.

He _needed_ to be doing _something real_ , and he was _one_ excuse away from leaving the tour, with or _without_ permission.

It didn’t mean that he didn’t smile at the unexpected letter he got from Virginia alongside one of Evie’s telling him of how she’d come across the other girl, and in deciding to pay forward her debt to him, she’d helped Evie out. She hadn’t expected to become friends with Evie, but they’d gotten talking and before she’d known it, they’d become friends.

(Evie was apparently just as maniac and scatter-brained as she’d always been, jumping from idea to idea and barely completing _any_ of them.)

Then Bucky’s letters, always about one every week, sometimes every two weeks if something big was happening on his end, suddenly became three weeks without word.

(If perhaps it was anyone else, he wouldn’t have been so worried, most letters took a lot longer to make it anywhere. He’d waited longer for Becca’s letters to get to him, and Bucky was on the front, but they were _Bucky’s_. Bucky had worked some sort of _magic_ to _make sure_ that his letters came like clockwork.)

He’d waited an extra day after it’d been two weeks before he’d marched right up to Pierce and _demanded_ to go overseas, making it clear without so many words that he’d take _no_ more excuses. Pierce had begged a week to get things in order, and he’d unhappily given it, because Pierce had to convince _Brandt_ to get things rolling. If Pierce didn’t get it, Steve was going to make it onto the next ship overseas with or _without_ permission.

How pale Pierce got made him think that Pierce _understood_ he had _one_ chance.

Then Agent Carter had shown up after a show and told him to pack up, he would be in Italy by first light.


	22. for all things, without exception.

Before she’d left, Peggy had told him that approval had only come because Brandt hadn’t been satisfied with just taking America by storm. He’d wanted Steve to go to where the action was and energize the troops.

Then she had given him a grin and told him therefore, he had approval _to go to where the action was_.

Steve had fully intended to take that and run with it.

He arrived at a US camp five miles from the front, and took in the makeshift tents, the diverse troops, and the trucks that drove in and out at all hours carrying soldiers. His shadow had practically been howling, shivering and quivering with the urge to _go_ as he’d changed into his costume.

(He didn’t know how a sliver of gold had come to circle his green-flecked iris, but if he had, he would have _smiled_ , one full of _teeth_ that would have snapped alongside the three heads in his shadow.)

As he had, the girls had moved to carry on the show without him, Cathy picking up an older costume and handing it over to Danny. They had given a wide grin before Ely had shoved him out of the tent.

For a moment, he stepped out into the crowd and watched the girls do their dance undaunted, and then Danny, dressed up like him stepped through the flag and shouted, “How many of you are ready to help me sock old Adolf in the jaw?”

The silence they were greeted with didn’t seem to daunt them, “Okay, I’m going to need a volunteer.”

He turned away from the crowd, the dozens of soldiers in dirty uniforms and glaring faces lined with fatigue, most of them bandaged up, making to where he could hear the familiar click of heels.

Agent Carter – Peggy, she’d said he could call her _Peggy_ if he wanted, that was what her friends called her and she thought they were _friends_ by now – was walking towards the crowd.

He could hear a soldier call out angrily, “I already volunteered! How do you think I got here?”

She gave a kind smile, eyes compassionate instead of disappointed that _this_ was all he’d become after Dr. Erskine had made him _more_ , “I understand you’re America’s new hope.”

Steve shrugged, “Ely said every state I’ve visited sees a ten percent bump in sales, but that’s not why I’m here, is it? I’m not going to be a lab rat, or a dancing monkey anymore.”

She started to lead him away from the crowd that was less than happy to see his show, didn’t even seem to care that it wasn’t him up there, giving him a _look_ out of the corner of her eye, “I thought you looked dashing, but I rather did have a thing for Errol Flynn in _Robin Hood_.”

He blushed a little at the flirtation, but shook it off after a moment, because she was just trying to make him feel better, “What’s the situation here?”

Due to their letters, he’d been vaguely informed of what Peggy and Colonel Phillips had been doing since Kruger had attacked the lab, chasing Hydra and having little luck taking out more than one head at a time.

“We got word that Schmidt was moving a force through Azzano, testing some kind of new weaponry.” Peggy hesitated for a moment, “Two hundred men went in, fewer than fifty of the 107th came back.”

Steve froze in place, heart stilling in his chest before he’d dumbly said, “The 107th?”

She’d nodded, and he’d realized why she’d hesitated before was because she _knew_ the 107th wasn’t just any unit to him. He’d never given her Bucky’s full name, but she knew he was a part of _this_ unit. When he’d sent a letter asking her if she knew if something had happened to the 107th, her response had been to come to him and tell him he was shipping out to Italy.

( _He’d never outright asked her, but he was_ sure _that once most of the 107th had been captured, she’d started the ball rolling to get him overseas so that he could_ be _there, to have this chance to_ know _if Bucky was alive himself, and_ do _something if needed._

 _It had been a very Peggy sort of thing to do, and he’d always loved her a little for giving the_ chance _to_ do _something, to_ save _Bucky, with or without permission._ )

He grasped her hands, looking her dead in the eye, “Thank you.”

Then he rushed towards the tents, heart rabbiting in his chest because he _needed_ to see Colonel Phillips, _now_.

He burst into Colonel Phillips’ tent to see the man surrounded by the piles of paperwork, right in the middle of righting condolences for those who hadn’t come back from the latest attack. The older man’s eyes had narrowed at him as he took in the costume, “Well, if it isn’t the Star-Spangled Man with the Plan.”

Steve didn’t blink at the derision, because it was deserved, holding the man’s gaze, “I need the casualty list from Azzano.”

Colonel Phillips’ eyebrows raised right up to his hairline at the demand – at the gold sheen to his eyes - then tapped the stars on his collar declaring his rank, “You don’t get to give _me_ orders, son.”

He barreled right on, not _caring_ if he risked court-martial for his attitude, there were bigger problems here, like _Bucky possibly being dead_ , “I don’t need the whole list, just _one name_. Sergeant James Barnes of the 107th.”

“You and I are going to have a conversation later that you won’t enjoy.” Despite his words, the Colonel started flipping through the papers in front of him, each one with a name, title and contact information of a man who had been killed in the line of duty, “I’ve signed more of these condolence letters than I would care to count, but the name _does_ sound familiar.”

Steve paled, hardly hearing, “I’m sorry.”

( _He_ remembered _the_ devastation _he’d felt at the almost confirmation that Bucky was_ dead _._ )

His gaze fell on the maps tacked to the wall behind Phillips, taking them in, particularly the one that showed aerial footage of a Hydra facility, presumably the nearest one where prisoners of war might be held.

“What about the others?” His own voice sounded distant as he memorized the photo and maps, “You’re planning a rescue mission, right?”

Colonel Phillips started from where he’d started back in on the papers, having dismissed him and now looking like he was contemplating starting the paperwork for his court martial here and now, voice dry, “Yeah, it’s called winning the war.”

( _Steve still didn’t know why he hadn’t been court martialed by the Colonel. He’d come back from Azzano successful, and sure for all that he’d ignored and disobeyed orders, every time he’d been just a bit_ too _successful to punish, but he_ had _still ignored and disobeyed orders._

 _The look Peggy must have given the Colonel might have saved him that time, but she couldn’t have saved him_ every _time._

 _Belatedly, he realized that Colonel really_ did _let him get away with a_ lot _; that at some point, he’d_ believed _that he’d win this war single-handedly if it meant getting his men home, just like he’d told him once._ )

Logically, Steve _understood_. The Colonel didn’t have enough men to even _consider_ trying, when his full force had been easily brought down to a quarter of what it’d been, and sending in a team would just cut his numbers further, and he just _couldn’t_ afford it.

Logic could throw itself down a ravine for all Steve cared, this involved _Bucky_ , “But if you _know_ where they are—"

“They’re _thirty miles_ behind the lines.” Phillips threw out an arm to his maps, sharply gesturing at the mark he’d made for the Hydra fortress, “ _Thirty miles_ behind the most heavily fortified territory in Europe. We’d lose more men than we’d save, even if by some _miracle_ , a team managed to get all the way _there_.”

( _Steve_ remembered _the devastation because the_ chances _Bucky was still alive were_ slim _. The chances of him getting to him without being caught would be even_ slimmer _, but he wouldn’t have been able to live with himself if he hadn’t even_ tried _._

_He’d tried and he succeeded._

_Then not even a year later, Bucky had fallen and he’d been_ gone _somewhere he’d thought he’d be unable to not follow to. If not for the_ Valkyrie _, Steve thought that he would have gone on and spent a lifetime searching for an entrance to the underworld to succeed where Orpheus had failed, and bring back his Eurydice._ )

Steve memorized it, dimly hearing Phillips set back down, “Now, if I read the posters correctly, you’ve got someplace to be in thirty minutes.”

He met the next show, the first one hardly finished, but Steve had _other_ places to be, “Yes, sir, I do.”

Peggy had spoken once he’d stepped out of the tent, “What do you plan to do, walk to Austria?”

He didn’t hesitate, “If that’s what it takes.”

“You heard the Colonel. Your friend is most likely dead.”

Steve turned his head until he could meet her gaze, “I don’t care about the odds. You told me you thought I was meant for more than this, to bide my time until they sent me to the front. I bided my time, now I’m here. Did you mean it?” She nodded, “Then you gotta let me _go_.”

She looked up at the sky, closed her eyes for a moment, then looked ahead, face set in determination, “I can do more than that.”

Steve didn’t remember much after that, as he’d returned for the moment to the showgirls while he waited for Peggy to return. He was in a daze, because Peggy had looked _beautiful_ as she’d set out to do more than just let him go.

(He _remembered_ thinking that she was _exactly_ the sort of woman his mother would have approved of him bringing home as his wife, never mind how she was _English_ , and that they would have gotten along _marvelously_.)

Once it was dark, she’d come back and he’d grabbed the wooden shield and one of the girl’s helmets as he’d followed her out.

He’d told her that he didn’t think that he would ever be able to repay her for being such a good friend. She’d immediately responded, voice biting, “Then come back _alive_.”

(Again, he’d thought of how she’d get along _splendidly_ with Bucky because her face had been a very familiar, exasperated- _why-Steve_ -fond- _dammit Steve_ -annoyed- _you-little-shit-you-better_.

The only difference he’d been able to imagine between if she’d been Bucky had been that Bucky would have flat-out punched him in deference to how _angry_ he’d been that he’d go _knowingly_ into death, flailing a little as he ranted while ‘trying to decide’ if he should kill him or just tie them together so that he _couldn’t_ go _without_ _him_.)

Peggy had led him into the belly of a giant silver jet, with Howard Stark in the cockpit. He’d taken off, but even as he’d checked dials and instrument readings while flying farther and farther into enemy territory, it’d been clear that he’d only done this as a favor for Peggy.

Steve hadn’t paid him much attention as Peggy had gone over the details of his self-imposed, seemingly impossible mission from the bench across from him. He’d hardly paid attention to _her_ as he’d tried to calm the sense of panic that he’d be _too late_ , pulling out his switchblade and flipping it open and closed, again and again.

It probably hadn’t helped Howard’s nerves, but he’d been too busy fluctuating between _what-if-Bucky-is-alive-is-hurt_ and _if-Bucky-is-dead-I’m-killing-them-all_. His ears had been full of howling as he’d perched on the edge of the seat, toes seeking deep into the fathomless shadow below him.

( _The Hunt had begun._ )

[ _The Hunt has_ begun _anew_.]

“The Hydra camp is in Krossberg.” Howard was shouting over the sound of the engines, but Steve still heard him loud and clear, “It’s up between these two mountain ranges. We should be able to drop you around the doorstep.”

He straightened up from his seat, to pace by the door at the back, “Just get me as close as you can.” Pacing to one side, “You know you two are going to be in a lot of trouble when you land.”

Then the other, “And you won’t?”

And back, “Where I’m going, if anybody yells at me, I can just shoot them.”

Peggy’s concern was more than audible, almost visibly dripping from her words, “Where they will undoubtedly shoot _back_.”

On the other hand, despite the situation, Howard didn’t show any concern for any consequences for this unauthorized mission, practically oozing confidence, “Well, let’s hope this is good for _something_ , Agent Carter.” He turned slightly to see Howard throwing Peggy a grin, “If you’re not in _too much_ of a hurry, I thought we could stop off in Lucerne for late-night fondue.”

Peggy had colored as Steve had raised an eyebrow at her, “Stark’s the best civilian pilot I’ve ever seen. And mad enough to brave this airspace.” – then she had grinned with the unspoken being, _and_ _who doesn’t have to answer to Colonel Phillips_ – “We’re lucky to have him.”

The grin had shattered with the sudden sound of gunfire, then the plane had lurched to the left as more guns hammered at its side. They were close to their ideal drop zone, but Hydra _did not_ want them to get there.

“I’m not going to make it to the drop zone before we’re going to get shot out of the sky! Any _other_ genius plans _other than marching straight up to the front door_ before I turn around?!”

Peggy had stood up wobbly as the plane shook with Stark’s evasive maneuvers, tilting left and right before she handed over a small device, “This is your transponder. Activate it when you’re ready and the signal will lead us straight to you.”

Steve eyed it skeptically, “Are you sure this thing works?”

Howard threw back a glare, “It’s tested more than _you_ , pal.”

( _Later, he’d find out it had been an invention of Howard’s._ )

Steve had shrugged before opening the jump door, seeing for himself how the side of the plane was getting pummeled with bullets, “The same plan!! Once I’m clear, go ahead turn this thing around, and get out of here!”

Peggy had shouted over the howling wind as she’d squinted at him, like she was checking off a mental checklist, “You can’t give me orders!”

“Yes, I can! I’m a captain!”

“Aye, aye, Captain!!”

Before she could respond to that – or the fact that he hadn’t grabbed one of the two parachutes in the plane in case the two _did_ get shot out of the sky, and that he _didn’t have a gun_ – he’d given his most innocent grin and stepped backwards. Her eyes had gotten big before he’d jumped, quickly disappearing from view as she’d watched.

The air rushed by, whipping Steve’s hair and pulling at his clothes, then as Stark turned around and retreated to safer airspace, the guns went quiet.

For a moment, because then his shadow had stretched out and a heart-stopping _howl_ had ripped through the air and then they’d started to scream and shoot.

His eyes had watered as the ground had approached at max speed while he spread his arms and legs open for maximum traction, thinking that this was going to go one of two ways. Either he would find Bucky and the rest of the 107th, and make like a blunt object and bludgeon their way free, the Grim heralding his way, _or_ he would _still_ find Bucky, he would free what remained of the 107th, then he would go tearing through this base _with_ the Grim until _every one_ of the bastards was _dead_ , their souls eaten.

(He hadn’t bothered to think about possibly doing here. That outcome had been _unacceptable_ , so he’d refused to even consider it. Just like how he didn’t lend any possible credence to the possibility that Bucky was _dead_.)

He hit the ground hard, throwing himself into a roll, as he heard things pop and _crack!_ Some of those things might have been from him as _pain_ had knocked the breath from his chest, but he’d stood anyway as the Grim snarled and howled nearby. The world rocked and shook around him as he stood, blood dripping from a handful of scratches he’d gotten from branches on the way down, and everything had seemed in triplicate as his eyes had vaguely tracked a near-indistinguishable shape through the nearby shadows nearby.

He watched it attach itself to shapes, before blood had sprayed as it’d leapt to another for a moment as he stumbled forward.

He pulled his shield from his back and started to _run_.

( _The fall should have killed him. It_ should _have, but Dr. Erskine had made him into something_ more _._ Now _, he was_ sure _Bucky had survived his fall.)_

[ _THE HUNT HAS BEGUN_ _._ ]

He’d run unchallenged as the Grim attacked anyone who stumbled across him while his head had slowly begun to clear, vision focusing again.

He remembered that if Bucky was _alive_ , that it was best that he wasn’t found _before_ he got to Bucky.

( _He_ remembered _thinking that if Bucky had been the one mounting this insane one-man rescue mission, that the other man would have been a ghost, slipping in unnoticed and freeing the 107th before he found a way to make the base go_ boom _. While admittedly, probably laughing maniacally and calling these fuckers every bad thing he knew in five different languages, picking off any Hydra survivors one by one from a distance almost leisurely as he smoked a cigarette while watching his men escape._

 _Bucky had always been a_ vengeful _sonovabitch. Not that he_ wasn’t _for his own reasons, but_ Bucky _just did it in a more_ spectacular _way, with_ style; _Bucky just did it in such a way that anyone who crossed him_ regretted _it, if they_ lived _long enough to regret it, because they didn’t, always._ )

Stealth had never come easy to him, not like it had for Bucky. His small body had naturally leant him a degree of stealth that made most things he did, in a manner, stealthy, but now it was the opposite.

( _Bucky had been a goddamned_ cat _; showing up anywhere and everywhere at any time with no warning, often perching in high places._

 _Bucky’s letter saying that he’d become a sniper had really not been a surprise_ at all _; it had basically been the accumulation of a lifetime of habits, showcased and recognized by Bucky’s new sharpshooter skills. That Bucky just happened to also be a stealthy bastard just meant the man had been able to_ get _to premier sniper perches while surrounded by the enemy without anyone the wiser until the bodies had started to fall_.)

He’d picked up a few tricks from Bucky though, in all the years of watching him, so despite being a hulking mass, he managed to slip past the guards between him and the main building after slipping through the gates inside a truck, then incapacitating any in the way, permanently.

(While the Grim had gone to the opposite end, starting there as a raven joined the crow already present and they descended together onto this field of death.)

Steve thought that if they’d just been soldiers, fighting for what they believed was right or fighting on orders, that he might have felt guilt over cutting their throats and breaking their necks. But he didn’t, because they weren’t.

They laughed and harassed the battered and beaten prisoners they were leading in a long line across the compound, sneering.

(He closed their eyes as he hid the bodies through out of sight, saying a silent prayer. The Morrigan would come for them to lead them away if the Grim didn’t.)

Bucky’s voice had been in his ear as he’d stripped each dead of any and all weapons, of anything that could be even remotely of _use_ in _their_ escape.

(Most of the side-arms had been less for him, and more for Bucky, but he’d pocketed one for himself as he’d imaged Bucky cussing him out for not just _going in_ unarmed but _remaining_ so.

His shield was useless, a massive crack through it and really only held together by a prayer, but it’d still been good enough to stun a man with before breaking entirely. His switchblade had been _much_ more useful.)

( _He_ still _considered himself lucky that Bucky had been too out of it to comment on the fact his helmet might as well been paper-mâché, his shield had been next to useless, and the gun had been German, before they’d escaped. He’d ditched the helmet and shield at the first opportunity on the trek back to base before they could remind Bucky of their uselessness, but he’d still gotten lectured over losing his gun ‘during a scuffle’ before he’d found Bucky._

 _Peggy, luckily, hadn’t said anything contrary when she’d debriefed Bucky, having quickly figured out Bucky would have had his_ head _over it_ , _before_ _sticking it on a pike stabbed outside his tent in warning_. _Because Bucky had spent too much time with his grandfather, and the old man had_ told _them of doing that to his enemies back in his heyday_.

 _He_ still _didn’t know if that was because he’d managed to fool Peggy or not, only that he_ still _half-expected for her to rat him out in a heartbeat for leaving her to clean up Hydra without him if she met Bucky again. He had_ no _doubt that he’d be Eurydice to Bucky’s Orpheus then, if only so Bucky could kill him_ himself _over Azzano._ )

Steve had silently entered the prison, but as soon as his eyes had adjusted to the dark, his mouth had dropped open in horror.

The barracks were something out of a nightmare. Dozens of circular cages filled the space and each one overflowed with prisoners, for possibly _hundreds_ of prisoners. Above the cages was a raised platform were a guard was pacing back and forth, watching all of them by his lonesome, periodically bending down and sneering something at one cage or another.

As Steve crept closer, circling around the guard, he noted that each cell was labeled, but he couldn’t read German.

( _Yet._

 _The war had given him cause to learn, then he’d known what he’d seen had been descriptions of race, gender, age, and ethnicity. No names._ )

Inside some of the cages though, some of them had drawn on a caricature of a lion roaring with a sword and shield in hand, declaring them as one of the 107th.

( _He_ remembered _Bucky grinning with too much teeth on the way back from Azzano as he’d called out, “_ The brave tread never alone!” _before he’d been echoed by the survivors of the 107th, “_ From a hell no else dares enter!”

 _He_ remembered _having sent Bucky his own doodle of the 107th’s lion while at Camp Lehigh._ )

After he’d broken the guard’s neck, the prisoners had looked up, confused.

The ones directly below him though, narrowed their eyes at him, and a familiar face snarled out, “What you lookin’ at, _blondie_? Fuck off!”

(Even without the lions on their chests, he’d known from that attitude _alone_ , that _these_ were some of Bucky’s. They’d spit in the face of Death if Death thought they’d come quietly, _just_ _like_ _Bucky_.)

Before he could respond, another man called out, “Who are _you_ supposed to be?”

He’d answered even as he’d scanned for Bucky among them, “Captain America”

Steve didn’t pay the groans any attention – and only partially because the doubt was deserved, he hadn’t _done_ anything so far with the body Dr. Erskine had given him – as he tried to find his old friend, but he couldn’t see him. Roughly grabbing the guard’s body, he searched him for keys and opened a few cages up before handing over the keys then some – most – of the weapons he’d picked up on his way in.

“Bucky- Sergeant Barnes, have any of you seen a Sergeant Barnes of the 107th?”

Every soldier he asked either hadn’t heard of him because from other companies, or hadn’t seen him since before the battle that had landed them there. He kept asking even as each negative answer made _maybe he’s dead maybe he’s dead maybe he’s dead_ bounce around in his head, louder and _louder_.

Amongst the hordes of men spilling out of their cages, shaking numb limbs and stretching sore muscles, he saw one face he recognized. He’d looked at him properly now – looked at the big burly man that _had_ been a strongman, that _had_ served with Bucky; Bucky had _said_ so in one of his letters – and asked _him_ , “Sergeant Barnes, _where is he?_ ”

Dum-Dum had met his gaze evenly, “The isolation ward, on the factory floor. They took him a couple of hours ago, but—”

Steve didn’t linger as the man cut himself off at the look on his face, pointing the opposite way he’d come in.

(He’d had mixed feelings on leaving them, mostly unarmed and right in the middle of the enemy camp, but that anxious feeling that had been twisting up insides since hearing the unknown fate of most of the 107th over-ruled any others. An anxious feeling that had been given control with the unspoken permission to _find Bucky_.)

( _He’d asked Dum-Dum later, what he’d been about to say, what he’d stopped himself from saying._

_His blood had run cold as the man had told him of how a German doctor would come in, pick somebody but they wouldn’t come back. For weeks, this had been going on, and then Bucky had volunteered himself before another one of his men could be taken._

_Knowing that he likely_ wouldn’t _come back._

 _Dum-Dum had tried to warn him before he went looking for a person and only found a body._ )

He all but ran out of that room, long strides devouring the ground as he moved into room after room until he was on the factory floor.

There were hundreds of crates full of complete bombs, and other crates of what looked like unfinished ones, and even more crates with clusters of cartridges nestled in straw. Most of them held a faint blue glow a lot like the serum Dr. Erskine had given him, and he pocketed a cartridge for Peggy as he continued towards the offices at the other end of the hangar.

At some point, his shadow twisted, changed, and the Great Dog bounded out of it, leading him this way and that, both of their teeth bared in a sharp parody of a smile because only on _people_ was it _kind_ , was it _happy –_ and right now, Steve was showing the Grim’s _smile_.

He searched for a familiar scent amongst all the iron and ozone blanketing the place, trying to find _Bucky_.

He remembered having no fear of being found like this, jogging alongside the Grim.

He remembered not blinking as the Grim tore out throats and clawed out chests, tearing out damned souls while they still lived. He remembered believing that if the Great Dog came for them, then they were as good as monsters, just in human shape.

( _Steve knew that he was no paragon of virtue, no matter the legend that had grown from his actions in this war. No matter how Dr. Erskine’s_ a good man _bounced around in his head, a reminder of the_ promise _he’d made._

 _He_ believed _that_ intentions _meant_ everything _in thought and action,_ believed _that doing bad needed_ consequences _. He_ believed _that there must be_ justice.)

He remembered thinking that whatever _evil_ these monsters had done, that it must have been _heinous_ , been _awful_ , been _horrible_ ; that it was _deserving_ of the Grim coming for them.

( _He had sworn then and there as he dispassionately watched another soldier fall to the Grim that if he ever crossed the line where he was no longer doing_ good _no matter his intentions, if he was causing more_ harm _than not, that he would lay down his arms and embrace the Grim and_ let _them tear out his soul willingly, to devour it for an eternity of torment._

 _It was what he thought might have endured him to the Great Dog as he strove to live by the promise that he’d made Dr. Erskine._ )

“ . . Sergeant. 32557038. Barnes, James Buchanan. Sergea—"

Steve barreled into a lab full of files and paperwork, specimen jars lining the shelves as various monitors beeped. He was blind to all of that as he saw a man strapped to a table right in the middle of the room, voice scratchy as he repeated, “—nt. 32557038. Barnes, James Buchanan. Sergeant. 32557038.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, not sure if he was willing to believe his eyes – his ears, his nose – not sure if he was willing to _hope_.

But the man kept _repeating_ in a soft, dead voice, “Barnes, James Buchanan. Sergeant. 32557038.”

It broke his heart at hearing his best friend, the second most stubborn man – the most stubborn after _himself_ – having all but given up.

(He hadn’t blamed Bucky for thinking that there would be no rescue for him. There wouldn’t have been, or at least not _in time for him_ , if _he_ hadn’t gone rogue.)

( _It had been right_ then _, that the whispers of wondering if all the pain the serum had brought was_ worth it _had_ quieted _, because littler-him would have done his damnedest, would have done_ anything _, but he’d_ known _in his heart of hearts that it_ wouldn’t _have been_ enough _to get him_ here _, but big-him_ had _been enough._

 _At least until Bucky had fallen, and all his strength hadn’t been able to catch Bucky’s hand and the snow had swallowed his friend._ )

He raced over and leaned over the beaten, bruised form of his old friend, whose dark eyes were unblinking, unseeing, “Bucky?”

Bucky didn’t respond right away, “Barnes, James Buchanan. Sergeant. 32557038.”

_“Bucky”_

The man slowly blinked, eyes clearing some of the fog clouding them, then they went _gold_ as they _saw_ him, “ . . _Steve?_ ”

His chest was tight as Bucky started to respond, and he was so full of despair and dismay, of over-flowing joy and happiness, at seeing _Bucky_ that it _hurt_. To see him clearly in _pain_ , with nothing he could do to help, to see him so clearly _out_ of it, shaking slightly and pale with fever-bright flushes of color in his cheeks and eyes still a bit glazed, _that_ hurt, but _to see him at all_ – to see him _alive_ – he’d been _glad_ that Bucky had still been too stubborn to just _die_. He _hated_ how bad Bucky looked, but to see him _at all_ , see him _alive_ , it had made his blood _sing_.

(Sing with _rage_ at how he was _hurt_ and sing with _joy_ to see him _alive._ )

Bucky just stared at him for a moment, and Steve’s voice had cracked, “I _thought_ \- I thought you were _dead_.”

Even the way he was, Bucky’s voice had softened, gentled, his eyes crinkling up at the corners because _I wouldn’t die so easily, didn’t I tell you I’d come back to you?_ – he’d whispered that before he’d left New York City, and Steve had _believed_ him then – because it was _him_ there, before looking up and _up_ at him, “I thought . . you were smaller.”

As he’d helped Bucky off the table, to his feet, his arm around his back, half-holding him up until his legs could hold him up again, he’d given a helpless little laugh at the understatement of a century before he felt Bucky looking him over for a long moment then asking, “What happened to you?”

There had been a _thousand_ things he’d wanted to _say_ , a thousand things that he _hadn’t_ said in the last six months of letters, hadn’t said in all the _years_ they’d been friends, but none of _that_ had come barreling out of his mouth, “I joined the army.”

Then the room had rocked, and all that had to wait until they were safe.

Steve hardly got a chance to look at a map covered in Hydra symbols spread all over a map in Europe before another explosion rocked the building, and he picked up the pace as more explosions continued to go off.

“Did it hurt?”

“Little bit.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bucky narrow his eyes, gaze not quite focused enough for it to be the same sort of menacing it usually was when Bucky caught him out on a lie.

Bucky licked dry lips and Steve had to pull himself away from staring because _not the time_ , “Is it permanent?”

“So far—"

[ _The time to wake had come; it would be delayed no more._

 _Bucky_ waited _on the other side for him. He wouldn’t keep him waiting any longer than he already had._ ]


	23. [Interlude] Jarvis was a Male War Bride

“What do you _mean_ Edwin was denied re-entry to New York.”

Howard looked at Ana and saw a shadow of her brother as she glared at the wall to his left. Her brows were pinched in a familiar particular way his deceased friend had down whenever he was two seconds away from cussing somebody out, questioning their intelligence, eyes narrowed and lips thinned in a near-snarl.

It was only _a_ shade less terrifying than when Bucky had done it.

The white of her teeth had flashed as she’d spat out sharply, “They said that with the war now effectively over, all foreign parties were to return home. Edwin won’t be forcibly extradited because his work-visa is in the works, but the immigration officer said that it could be over a year before it goes through with all the applications submitted in the last month.”

Ana might as well have been spitting out glass from the way those words had fallen from her lips, less for him because he already was aware of the situation, and more to vent her feelings aloud as to not commit violence. It just so happened that of the extended Barnes family and friends, he – despite running a very successful business, and freelance consulting for the SSR – had the time to be there for Ana, what with being busy with the end of the war and the three Barnes sisters busy still grieving for the recent deaths of their older brother and his best friend.

Every Barnes he’d met was a little terrifying, and he’d been something like friends with Bucky, but ever since he’d crossed paths with Jarvis and Ana out in the field while doing some work for the SSR, he’d been seeing a lot of Ana. Mostly because he’d offered a job to Jarvis for after the war, and the other man had accepted, then he’d proposed to Ana. The two of them were partners in every sense of the word, and so in Jarvis’ absence, she was acting as his assistant.

It currently meant that he was the one that was witness to her slowly getting more and more incensed over Jarvis’ absence.

Her half-gold eyes trying to burn literal holes into his wallpaper, in an eerily similar manner to her brother, had him taking slow steps away. He _remembered_ Bucky having flipped a heavy oak table like it was nothing when somebody had tried to tell him that only family or spouses would be allowed to see an unusually-long injured Steve, and he had no doubt that Ana wasn’t far from herself.

Howard very carefully didn’t think of what else he remembered from that incident, when someone looking a _lot_ like Ana, but also obviously _not_ Ana with short dark hair, had come charging in wearing a dress demanding to see _Stevie_. In the moment, it had been endlessly amusing to see Bucky in a dress – even if it also caused him a lot of self-directed questions over whether it was just _ladies_ he was attracted to, or if he might be a little more equal opportunity than he’d thought – but he’d never _said_ anything about the moment, even in teasing in case anyone else heard him. It _had_ told him though that a Barnes would not be deterred easily, if _at_ _all_.

“The fucking bastards.”

He put himself on the other side of his work table, wondering if on a scale between the scene Evie had caused when fired by the factory and the scene Becca had made when the news had come about Bucky’s death, what _Ana_ _would_ _do_ , “So, what’s the plan?”

Evie was the mellowest of the Barnes siblings, who’d rather compromise than fight if it meant it was faster, but Becca and Bucky had been the sort to tell the _world_ to move before _they_ would. The question wasn’t _if_ there would a plan, but if he should start greasing some wheels now _before_ she cowed the immigration department beneath her heel.

The glare faded some, for something sly, the gold glittering with triumph, “I heard that soldiers can bring their foreign wives home as ‘war brides’. I looked at the legislation and it doesn’t actually _say_ that said brides _have_ to be female, just married.”

Howard just stared at her for a moment, then pulled out the bottle of scotch he’d hidden away atop his bookshelf to replace the one he’d finished off after they’d dropped Big Boy over Japan and thousands had died in an instant. He’d gotten absolutely shit-faced after that, and still didn’t remember the three days after he’d realized what sort of weapon that he’d helped the military create, but Evie had confiscated all the alcohol she could find in his office and workrooms aside from this one. He was a grown man and if he wanted to drink himself to an early grave, he _could_ , but there had been tears in her eyes and he’d tried to cut back ever since.

But emotions were _hard_ , and alcohol _helped_.

Ana held out a hand for a shot, and he poured them both one, then toasted, “To making Jarvis a male war bride.”

Then he pulled out some papers that he’d hidden in the secret compartment of his desk, hidden away so that Evie couldn’t stumble over them and get her hopes up. Ana was quiet as she read them over, and he poured them both another shot.

He’d been passingly friendly to both Steve and Bucky, but he’d known they weren’t quite _friends_. He’d never gotten the chance to know _Steve Rogers_ and he regretted it, just as he _regretted_ not getting to know Bucky Barnes better than what sort of science fiction he liked. He’d thought that they’d have after the war to get to know each other better, but instead Bucky’s body was somewhere in the Swiss Alps and Steve’s was in the Northern Atlantic. Maybe they weren’t friends, but the least he owed them was to bring them home, no matter the cost.

She threw the shot back.

Then she’d smiled faintly, naked gratefulness on her face, “I won’t forget this.”


	24. [Stark Reality] wake from your dreams, soldier -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain America went into the ice in 1945. Steve Rogers came out in 2008. Much had changed in the years in-between, but some things remained the same.  
> New York City never slept. A Stark single-handedly made great leaps in technology. Spies never answered questions. Steve Rogers would always love Bucky Barnes.
> 
> (And Bucky Barnes would always love Steve Rogers.)

The waters of the Northern Atlantic had gotten more and more unpredictable in the years since it had become a bit of a graveyard for U-boats, and the periodic freighter since the later days of World War II. It’d become just as infamous as the Bermuda Triangle, but not for that – for being the watery grave of Captain America.

For decades it had refused to give up the Captain’s body despite the endless efforts of Stark Industries until the search had been abandoned with Howard Stark’s death. Periodically, another would go looking, but after the Captain had ended communications with Agent Carter, the _Valkyrie_ had disappeared – presumably to never to be found – with few clues for its heading, possible flight path, intended destination, or even speed of travel.

Then off the coast of Greenland, a freak storm sent a freighter off course into that no-man’s land of the North Atlantic, and as they cut through the breaking ice fields, a piece of metal had drifted up in their wake.

The ship’s captain had been unnerved by a piece of steel floating up from the ocean and as his crew had checked for any punctures in their hull, the piece of metal had been fished out. It had read: _Valkyrie_.

Twelve hours later, the _Valkyrie_ was raised from the ocean’s depths.


	25. [Interlude] Myths, Magic, and Mutants, Oh My

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #integrating mutants into magical realism

It was quiet as three of Charles Xavier’s senior-most pupils sat in the chairs in front of him. It’d been a rather quiet week, students not causing too much chaos and nothing more urgent than a milk run for the X-men, but the older man had a look on his face that they’d rarely seen.

It was grave, concentrated, but also far away.

Jean looked concerned at whatever she was getting off the other telepath, Scott having already pulled out his phone to slowly type in some of his most frequent searches about possible connections to Magneto.

Ororo calmly leaned forward, “Professor? What is it that you wanted to tell us about?”

The man blinked, his face clearing slightly before focusing on them, “Forgive me, I was trying to think of where to begin with this. It’s a bit of a long story.”

Despite all three of them being in their early thirties, they all slid a closer to him onto the edges of their seats like they were little kids waiting for Dad to tell a bedtime story, because it wasn’t often that their mentor offered a _story_. When _Xavier_ offered a story, it meant something _big_ ; like the revelation that he’d grown up with Mystique or the story of him meeting Magneto before he was Magneto and them putting an end to a Nazi mutant supremacist that made Magneto look like a kitten.

Jean didn’t blink, “The beginning perhaps?”

Scott elbowed his girlfriend for her _how else would you start_ tone; she’d been spending too much time working on her new thesis regarding the emergence of mutants and she _really_ hated that each and every one of her sources worked backwards, “Or the end, if that’s easier.”

Xavier smiled, eyes crinkling up with more lines than any of them wanted to admit, proof that the man was getting _old_ and even if he’d hardly been sick a day the entire time that they’d known him, none of them liked to think of a day when he’d be _gone_ , but time stopped for no man.

“A little bit of both then.” Then he glanced to the side, out a window overlooking the grounds, gaze trained on something much further away, “When I found my first class of mutants with Cerebro, including your older brother, Scott, I discovered that there were others of a different sort of _special_ than mutants are.”

He turned back to them, “It’s a bit like looking in an older mirror. The edges aren’t as distinct, and the image is a little _off_ but they _are_ recognizable. Most are indistinguishable from mutants, while others are a little more distinct.” – or more accurately, directly at _Ororo_ – “I’ve talked to one that lives in New York City a year or so after making this discovery, and she knew _exactly_ what I was talking about. Like with the Neanderthals, humanity had interbred with lots of things over our long history. Things that we dismiss as from myths.”

He smiled kindly at her, because _showing_ would be easier than _telling_ here, “My dear, if you’d show Jean and Scott what I mean?”

The woman grinned toothlessly to hide her dagger-like teeth and when she spoke it wasn’t like she had before, because even at a whisper it was booming like thunder, crackling like lightning, double-toned, “ ** _Would letting it dance across my fingers be enough?_** ”

Scott startled but Jean was already leaning in as sparks flew from the other woman’s fingers, looking back and forth between them and solid-white stormfront eyes, “I see. _This_ explains why there always felt like there was _more_ to you when I would catch the edges of your mind, cast out beyond your body like a storm front when most are confined to just their immediate vicinity.”

He held up a hand, “Wait, wait, wait.” – the other pinching between his eyes as he visibly tried to sort through this – “Like what sort of myths are we talking about? The Greek? The Egyptian? The Korean?”

Xavier steepled his hands under his chin as Ororo dismissed her lightning to Jean’s disappointment, “ _All_ of them. The woman I met was descended from dragons that once roamed the lands of the Russian Empire, her grandfather a _strigoi_ _viu_ as she called him, that has lived unceasingly for centuries. Her brother having loved a man beloved of Death’s herald, shepherd, and hound. Her son married and had a child with a _xiezhi._ ”

The room went dead-quiet.

Jean was nearly vibrating in her seat with intrigue as Scott dropped his head in his hands, looking like he mildly regretted getting out of bed this morning, while Ororo looked contemplative.

Xavier spoke after a moment, “Since I first touched minds to some of them, I’ve met a few of them again and again, just _existing_.” – his gaze returning to the window – “One of them whose body slept in a cold watery grave in northern waters as his mind circled through memories, calling out to another. For over forty years, he’s called out _Bucky_ unceasingly, hoping for an answer from one side or the other of death to lead him home.”

All three got similar looks on their faces because that _shouldn’t_ have sounded familiar, but _did_ anyway. Those details shouldn’t have meant _anything_ specific, but _a man in a cold, watery grave in northern waters_ and the name _Bucky_ , that the direction Xavier was looking in was towards _New York City_.

“He’s woken up.”


	26. wake to a new (different) world,

_Steve had been unable to sleep the time away in the ice any longer, not with the Grim howling in his ears,_ eager _to start their Hunt again._

 _His eyes had been heavy, unwilling to open but slowly, he’d become_ aware _. He’d started to feel the_ cold _, to feel the way the ice_ pinned _him down like a butterfly on a board. Then the weight started to lift, lessen little by_ little _as a_ warmth _slowly washed over him in rolling waves._

_Distantly, he heard a distorted scream._

_Steve knew then that he was in the ice no longer, and_ now, _he would wake_ properly.

~

As his body thawed slowly, his mind worked fast.

He had gone into the ice when the _world_ had been at war, and it had been beginning to wind down, but Steve didn’t have the faintest hope of even _trying_ to guess how _long_ it had been since he’d gone under. His war had likely ended, but he didn’t have the slimmest clue of _how_ it had ended, or _who_ had won it.

Steve couldn’t even guess if he’d been rescued by an ally or captured by an enemy, only that _someone_ had gone to _great_ lengths to fish him out of the ice. Either way, they wanted _something_ from him.

He wasn’t inclined to give _anything_ ; he’d paid his dues, he’d done his duty, and he had things to do, people to find.

The situation made him _cautious_ , and as his body slowly began to respond to him again, he’d carefully started to take in his surroundings. Looking for _anything_ that would point towards if this was or was not a rescue; it’d decide everything about what his response would be.

He’d heard a familiar voice on the radio, talking about a baseball game. It was a broadcaster he’d listened to before, in person, from the last ballgame that he’d gone to see with Bucky before the attack on Pearl Harbor. The smell of fresh plaster was in the air, like someone had recently done construction, but it was _different_ than any plaster he’d ever smelt before, a different mix, one that was less chalky and sharper. The air tasted _odd_ , familiar but strange and almost dust-less. The air filtration he could hear humming in the distance was working better than anything he’d seen before outside one of Evie’s machines, sucking up nearly anything hanging in the air. The room was cool, without any warmth from the sun, demonstrating its lake of window.

He could hear a few people in the distance, and one closer, but he could just _about_ hear a _lot_ more. The noise was just muffled oddly.

He couldn’t hear medical equipment; couldn’t hear anything that made him think _hospital_. Which made him think this was unlikely to be a rescue, because there _had_ been medical equipment, he’d vaguely been able to sense it before, but it was gone now. Allies would have kept medical equipment nearby, in case it was needed; _enemies_ wouldn’t.

He couldn’t smell iron bars, or gunpowder though, and wasn’t tied up. If he was being imprisoned, his guards weren’t making it obvious.

There was also the chance that they were either _severely_ underestimating him, or they didn’t know who he was, unlikely as it was unless it’d been a _long_ time since he’d went into the ice.

Steve would make them _regret_ underestimating him.

Still, there was the chance that whoever had him _wasn’t_ an enemy. He didn’t have enough information to decide if a lethal response was called for.

He opened his eyes slowly, blinking a few times at the bright light, noticeably brighter than any lightbulb he knew, before quickly taking in the pale beige room modeled loosely after a hospital room. It looked like someone had taken a look at a photo of a hospital room from his childhood, except cleaner, and tried to recreate it without having actually seen anything in the photo in person, and recently because there wasn’t any wear-and-tear on anything, all too _new_.

A woman came into the room, taking a moment to process that he was awake, before she smiled, “Good morning, Captain Rogers.”

Her teeth were too clean, too _white_.

Neither he nor his mother had ever worn a nurse’s outfit like hers, and the cloth itself was wrong. It laid wrong on her too, too shapely, not bunching right around her undergarments. Nor did it have the lingering scent of antiseptic and blood that wouldn’t come out no matter how many times he’d washed it, with an additional faint chemically floral scent overtop the scent of blood and death.

She was just like the room, an imitation of something she’d never seen, made of things that were too new.

Then there was the fact that her annunciation was _off_. It was too bland, with no regional accent, stripped of any hint of where she’d come from or learned English.

Everything about this whole situation had so many alarm bells ringing in his head that he didn’t think for a _moment_ about playing along and seeing what she knew, not when _she knew his name_ and he felt _small_. They’d underestimated him because he wasn’t _big_ any more, but that was their _mistake_.

Steve surged forward out of the bed, slamming into her with his skinny shoulder as his fingers danced under the edge of her pale mid-thigh skirt to grab her knife before running at one of the walls that smelt so strongly of plaster. He plunged through it easily, like it was tissue paper. The not-nurse was knocked back _hard_ into the opposite wall even as his breathe came easy despite the panic building in his chest at being _small_ again.

(Even if he was small, it _didn’t_ mean that he _couldn’t_ _escape_. Bucky had called him a wily greased weasel impossible to pin down, once. The only reason why Bucky had managed to then, had been because his lungs would fail him.

His lungs _weren’t_ failing him now though.)

He didn’t miss a stride because he _knew_ this body, knew it _better_ than he had ever gotten with his big one no matter that he’d gone to war with it. More importantly, it didn’t _hurt_ to be in this body like it had before.

Bucky had asked him once if the serum had been permanent, and he’d only been able to say _so far_.

Perhaps it _was_ permanent, but he didn’t know how to _feel_ about being small again.

It was all he’d wanted while being big, but he’d started to accept his new form and he’d woken up expecting it.

If Bucky hadn’t needed him; if Bucky wasn’t missing and possibly captured, he would have been _happy_. He would have dropped to his knees this very second and thanked the _Lord_ at being _small_ again, but Bucky wasn’t _here_ though, and if this was the second coming of Azzano, that meant that this small body could be a _liability_.

Steve _couldn’t_ tolerate that.

More than being _small_ again, his heart raced with panic because he might not have _time_ to get this body to fighting fit. There was a horrible feeling sitting low in his gut that said he might already be _too late_ for Bucky.

He had no illusions about Bucky’s personality; Bucky was a grade-A asshole at the best of times. When Bucky was hurting, he could be vicious, cruel, and if Bucky had ended up back in Hydra’s hands – had been told that _he_ was _dead_ , told that he was dead when he _wasn’t_ there like _never_ before even with the _many_ times he’d laid on his deathbed – he’d be _something else_. He’d want everyone around him to _hurt_.

 _Himself_ included.

To feel his pain two-fold, physically.

He’d seen it some during the war, the almost self-inflicted wounds when he’d pick fights and do and say _whatever_ he needed to get somebody _mad_ at him, get them to _hurt_ him. They’d never talked about how Bucky had stopped thinking at some point that they were going home, and had worked out who would get what of his.

(Aside from little Asshole the Cat. She’d tried to take Dum-Dum’s face off when Bucky had tried to foster her off on him.)

They’d fought over Bucky _settling his affairs_ even if they hadn’t _said_ that was why they’d been fighting.

(It had _scared_ Steve that Bucky might just _let_ death come for him without a fight.

Them going after Zola had been the most animated, the most _hopeful_ he’d seen Bucky about seeing an end to the war then he had in _months_. Then Bucky had been blown out of the train and he’d been _fighting_ to _live_ , and for that brief moment before he’d fallen, Steve had _hoped_ that things might be okay afterwards if he’d just caught Bucky’s hand.

He’d never forget the _look_ on Bucky’s face as he fell.)

They’d also never talked about how Bucky had volunteered himself in Azzano after he’d lost hope, or that he’d gotten beaten up before that for smarting off and offering sarcastic commentary and directions in hopes that the pain would _end_.

He had _no_ illusions that Bucky wouldn’t try to get his captors to kill him rather than be a prisoner again, _doubly_ so if he thought there was no hope of someone coming for him.

Steve _feared_ what Bucky would _allow_ Hydra to do to him after he’d given up entirely.

His thoughts were on Bucky, completely; he hardly noticed how as he ran through the building, people darted out of his way, started chasing, were yelling after him – or more accurately, didn’t spare them more than a second’s thought to dodge and pick up the pace because _Bucky_. He bared his teeth at the person who tried to grab his arm on a stairwell, reflexively striking with the knife in his hand from throat to sternum, lightly drawing blood in _warning_.

Then he was barreling his way through the front doors into the street, out among the people passing by going both ways. He quickly slipped in with them, moving with the crowd away from the building he’d been in, going with the majority.

Steve found himself wide-eyed as he looked down at a smoother concrete, up at bright lights and moving pictures in storefronts, around at the completely different style of buildings; at the thousands of people around him in just as many ways of dress – some of them wearing so much _less_ than he’d ever seen in the hot and muggy, height of _summer_ air – most of them talking on some small machine unlike anything he’d ever seen, backdropped by hundreds of cars in all sizes and colors. His steps started to slow as despite all these things, the streets started to look _familiar_ , distracting him from all the _noise_.

All around him was undeniable proof that the world had moved on without him, had changed beyond anything he’d known; that he’d been absent from it all for a _long_ time.

(He’d lost _months_ , at least, or maybe even _years_ , possibly even _more_.)

He stopped as he tried to take it all in, and the people just continued to move around him, brushing up against him, brushing past him, giving him that familiar little furrow of their brows for daring to just _stop_ in the middle of their path that just screamed _New Yorker_ to him. His hands moved before he thought it through because _that_ was why the streets looked _familiar_ , _that_ would explain it, and he lightly picked out wallets from pockets and bags to _prove_ it.

The wallets felt _wrong_ , like leather but _not_ , and they were full of shiny rectangular cards of different colors – and one semi-familiar one that was an ID card. Each one he looked at said different things, said the people they’d belong to came from different places, but most – most said _New York City_.

Then there was the _money_ tucked in the back of the wallet, behind all the cards, each one of these people singularly wealthier than any and all the money he’d ever had in his life – and including Bucky’s money too from when they’d pooled money for rent – _combined_. The money felt _different_ too, and as he pulled out the smallest bills, he saw dozens of dates.

Each and every bill had been made no earlier than _1978_ , and no later than _2008_. It was a new _century_ – a new _millennium._

Steve numbly pocketed the four wallets into the tiny pockets of his pants because _sixty-three years_ was a _long_ time to be sleeping in the ice. A _lifetime_ practically.

(He’d been gone for _decades_.)

Most of the people he’d known would – could – be _dead_.

(Aside from, probably, most of the Barnes. The elder Barnes hadn’t aged any the whole time he’d known him, and Becca had shown him a photo of the man holding her father as a baby and he’d looked _exactly_ the same. George hadn’t really aged either, even as Winifred had started to silver, as he’d still been rather baby-faced if not the scruff on his cheeks and his _eyes_.)

He wondered if the reason why none of the Howling Commandos had been at his bedside when he’d woken up, if he _was_ in New York had been because they’d _all_ died.

(He wondered where Peggy was then, because if _she’d_ died, she would have threatened Death until she was taken to him so that she could smack him awake. He had no doubt about _that_ , so Peggy was _alive_.)

Steve stood there and waited for his pursuers to catch up as he watched the people around him. Men and women, holding hands and arm-in-arm, leaning into each other’s space without hesitation despite being in public, despite their partners not always being the opposite sex. Men and women in all manners of clothes and styles, laughing freely and not being called names for showing skin – some of them a _lot_ of skin – or how what they were didn’t always match what sex they’d been born in. Men and women of all sorts, in numbers like he’d never seen in the New York of his youth, not even in their neighborhoods.

He was seeing the _future_ – the future that Bucky had promised in not so many words once, when they’d gone to the Stark Expo – but all _he_ wanted was the _past_ , because the past was where _Bucky_ was, undeniably. He wasn’t sure if he could hope that Bucky _had_ survived the last half-century, if he’d survived his fall only to have been captured by Hydra again.

If he hadn’t taken the _Valkyrie_ into the ice, he wouldn’t have survived this long. Maybe he could have _tried_ , but he didn’t think he’d have succeeded, once Hydra was gone, once he had Bucky’s body. He would have found a mountain to die on, and left the fighting to the next generation.

Steve _couldn’t_ dwell on the possibility that Bucky had died in all these years he’d been sleeping; he _refused_ to. He’d made that assumption once that Bucky was dead without a body, and he wouldn’t again. He _had_ to keep that bull-headed obstinate _faith_ that Bucky was _alive_ like he had going into Azzano, or he wasn’t sure that he wouldn’t cease to be Dr. Erskine’s _good man_ if he couldn’t find Bucky’s body near where it’d fallen.

(Colonel Phillips had _promised_ to search for Bucky’s body once the winter had passed, but promises meant _nothing_ when money was involved, no matter how willing somebody was to put in the effort. If Bucky _was_ dead, he could hope that Colonel Phillips _had_ brought him _home_ , but he wouldn’t _expect_ it; he’d _expect_ Bucky to be where he’d _died_ , probably with his middle finger raised as one final _fuck-you_.

Because Bucky had and always would have been an _asshole_.)

Steve’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment to collect himself, before he turned at the slow, steady footsteps of someone approaching him directly, tuning the rest of his senses to those taking up positions in a loose circle around him. All ten of them smelt a little like blood and death – like the faux-nurse had, like all the soldiers he’d known had – while nine sets of eyes were sharp; wary on him and respectful on the man approaching him.

He tracked their movements absently, unsure if he could trust their intentions; if they were meant to subdue him if he didn’t play along, _or_ if they were there _just_ _in_ _case_ because none of them knew _him_ and he was an unknown who’d already proved _dangerous_. He focused on the one man, the leader, a big, built black man with an eye-patch.

“Welcome back to New York, Captain.”

Beneath the eye-patch was a set of scratches, that looked _vaguely_ familiar. They looked a _lot_ like Baba Yaga’s scratches, with a similar discoloration and raised skin after it healed, which _should_ be impossible. Baba Yaga had been something _else_ , strange and only really _cat-shaped_ – and thankfully, the _only_ one he’d ever seen of whatever she was – but she’d been almost twenty years old when he’d put the _Valkyrie_ in the ice, and even if she’d been in perfect health back then, she _shouldn’t_ have lived _much_ longer.

Then again, _cat-shaped_ did _not_ mean _cat_. Bucky _had_ been rather wild-eyed as he’d told him about seeing Baba Yaga open her mouth and a whole host of tentacles come out and grab Ms. Jenkins’ yapping mutt before swallowing the twice-over bigger dog _whole_. They’d never _quite_ decided _what_ to label the not-feline _as_ , but Becca hadn’t even blinked before waving off their concern when they’d told her, just saying that _Baba Yaga_ was _clearly_ the right name for her eldritch creature of a pet.

The man didn’t seem to be phased at his attention being focused on his facial scars, though Steve doubted he knew _why_ , “You’ve been asleep almost seventy years, Captain. The world has changed—”

The scars weren’t distracting enough for him to sit through any placating bullshit speech though, not when he’d already figured _that_ out five minutes after escaping, “Already figured that, thanks. I’m not that slow on the uptake.” He held up the _2008_ one-dollar bill, tapping his knife against it to draw the man’s attention to it, “It’s a little obvious, actually. Should have just dropped me in the deep end instead of starting in the shallows.”

The man blinked – winked? – but Steve barreled on without waiting for whatever his response would have been, “Where’s Peggy? Where’s _Bucky?_ ”

He wanted to know _why_ Peggy wasn’t here, because there was _no_ way she wouldn’t have been if she knew he’d been found. He’d promised her a dance after all. Peggy would have _held_ him to that as long as they were both alive; she didn’t believe in renegading on promises for any reason except being entirely incapable.

The man frowned slightly, “Sergeant Barnes was killed in action in late 1944, Captain. Do you not remember?”

Steve’s nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed because that _wasn’t an answer_ , before getting a little dizzy at the thousand of scents that brought him, so many of them new, strange, distant cousins of what he’d known. He quickly shook it off, “I _remember_. I remember it _well_. He fell from a train, but Colonel Phillips said he’d send men to find his body once winter was over. _Did he?_ ”

The frown got deeper, “No body was found, but it was assumed that the river had swept him away and scavengers had gotten to what remained.”

Steve stalked forward, a roaring in his ears as his shadow rippled and shook with the Great Dog’s snarls, “ _No body? No one found him?_ ”

The man took an involuntary step back, and Steve didn’t hesitate to press it, moving forward with all the mimicked feral grace of Bucky that he could muster, until he was close enough to grab the man’s gun, thoughts going a thousand miles a minute because-

( _Bucky’s body hadn’t been found. Bucky hadn’t died from the fall, like he’d come to realize. Bucky had likely been recaptured by Hydra. BUCKY WAS A PRISONER OF HYDRA AGAIN._ )

“Where. Is. _Peggy_. I _need_ to see _Peggy_.”

His eyes narrowed up at the man, lips curling back to bare his teeth to show how he’d _regret_ keeping him where he _didn’t_ want to be, “ _Where_ are my things?”

Before he left, permission or no permission, to hunt for Bucky though, he wanted to hear the familiar _jingle_ of his dog tags against his rosary, see his candy ring next to his mother’s ring, touch his half-finished necklace of coins and bottle caps, “Am I a _prisoner?_ ”

The man met his gaze evenly despite his unspoken threats that had his men reaching for their weapons, unsure if they should draw it on him, in this crowd, “Director?”

“Stand down.” Lifting one of his hands to stop him from drawing his gun out of his holster, the man didn’t even _flinch_ at how his shadow closed teeth around his feet, pinning him there and one second away from dragging him into the _dark_ , “I think this is best done inside, Captain, before we attract the wrong sort of attention.”

Steve could hear how people were starting to stop, to stare, whispering, wondering what was going on, was someone filming something, and his eyes narrowed warily because he hadn’t forgotten how _am I a prisoner_ hadn’t been _answered_ , but he followed anyway. If these people knew _who he was_ , they should know about Azzano – should know that he was _not_ the sort to ask permission past a certain point, and they were rapidly approaching it. He’d give them their chance, then he was _gone_.

The Grim nipped at the man’s heels before bounding off into the crowd, its howl rattling the glass of nearby buildings. Steve’s grin was just as toothy as its because the Grim was _hunting_ now, and he’d _follow_ soon.


	27. wake to a new (old) fight,

After they were inside, the man had introduced himself as Nick Fury, the Director of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division.

Steve had almost asked if his father had been at Azzano; he’d known a Nick Fury who had then served with the Ghost Company, but the man had started to explain how a lot of things had changed since he’d gone into the ice.

One of the first things had been how they’d won the war, with Germany and then Japan surrendering as well a few months later, by September.

(Then that it was _August_ now, and really _was_ sixty-three years later.)

Before he’d really processed _that_ – that the end of the war had been so _close_ , that he and Bucky could have _both_ come _home_ – he’d then gone on to say that within a couple of years, with the end of Hydra, the SSR had come to an end as well. Then it had been reformed into SHIELD by Margaret Carter and Howard Stark, and their main work was to prevent a second coming of a group like Hydra.

After he’d been found, he’d fallen within their jurisdiction, being the only multi-national agency with experience with ‘superhumans’.

Steve had been a little stunned at the idea that he _wasn’t_ the only one that was _more_ anymore. Not that he had _ever_ been the _only_ one what with the Barnes being _something_ , and Schmidt, then _Bucky_ being a combination of both something _more_. Then there had been so many _questions_ that he’d gotten tongue-tied wondering what to ask _first_.

He’d wanted to know _more_ ; he’d wanted to know how the war had ended, why had it taken _nine_ _months_ , what had happened to the Howling Commandos, to the Ghost Company, where was Peggy, what were these _other_ superhumans-

Then Fury had offered him assistance for him to live in this new world, and the chance to _ask_ had passed.

He’d accepted because what else could he do. He’d take their help – take their included surveillance – and _learn_. He’d take their offered protection while he found what exactly this new-old body could _do_ , until he could take on _anyone_ that stood in his way to _Bucky_.

He was told of how Dr. Erskine’s serum had kept him alive, suspended in the ice. That the vita-rays that had strengthened his body had weakened under such prolonged stress, and his body had regressed to the form it had known best, that it could _sustain_ , cannibalizing itself to stay _alive_.

(Steve didn’t say a _word_ about how the vita-rays had been all _show_. He’d keep Dr. Erskine’s secret.

It _helped_ that he didn’t think anyone would much _believe_ that his body had grown thanks to a goddess – thanks to _Death herself_ – deciding to step in on a _whim_. It was rather hard to prove after all. Also, really opened up the conversation that there _was_ _more_ than _one_ god – than _God –_ and _he_ was still reeling from the possibility.)

Just like how _Fury_ didn’t need to say that their help came with surveillance, because he was an _unknown danger_ , nothing like what they’d been expecting out of _Captain America_ , _he_ didn’t have to say that with him being _smaller_ , not the Captain America the world over apparently _knew_ , that SHIELD didn’t quite know _what_ to do with _him_.

For the moment, Captain America was kept on ice.

 _Steve_ _Rogers_ , though, was free of the contract that he’d signed in Camp Lehigh. Or at least, Fury was hesitant to try to enforce it while they figured out exactly _what_ they expected of him now that he was _small_ again.

Whichever way it was, in return for that ‘freedom’ – after a battery of tests that basically amounted to ‘despite his size, the serum heightens just as much as we knew it did before’ – Steve was shuffled out to an apartment in the old-new banking district.

(Out of the way as they waited to see if the serum would make him _big_ again, or if he’d be _this_ size again.

When he’d answered Bucky about if the serum was permanent – if this _body_ was permanent – he’d apparently, _severely_ understated himself when he’d said, _so far_. The only thing that he could positively say thanks to these tests was that the serum _was_ permanent, bonded to his genes.

He’d stopped being able to follow what the scientists had been saying after that though, as they’d starting talking with terms he’d never learned.)

Less than a _day_ in that apartment, and Steve was already ready to take on the world. He’d restlessly paced from one side to the other, having problems accepting how _much_ had changed.

The agent that had escorted him there had apologized for the space being so small, but the whole place was _huge_. It was easily four times bigger than even the Barnes’ home had been, of the quality the sort like he’d seen in luxury buildings owned by industry giants like JP Morgan and Rockefeller. It was on the top floor, higher up than any building he’d ever been in before, with only a handful of neighbors sharing his floor.

He had a private laundry room, bathroom with both bathtub and shower, a kitchenette three times bigger than the one Winifred had had, and a closet practically the size of the apartment he’d shared with Bucky. He had hot water at any time of the day, scorching hot within a minute. The water running in his sink was cleaner than any he’d tasted.

The whole place was full of electronics like those that he’d remembered seeing prototypes of at the Stark Expo, or made by Evie. One of which kept the room a balmy temperature _nothing_ like the muggy heat he was used to living through for summer in New York City. The instruction manuals packed into a drawer for each, were written in six languages.

Three of his neighbors spoke languages he’d never heard.

The wall of books – a bookshelf that took up one whole wall – had topics ranging the gauntlet from things like chemistry to cooking to airplane schematics. One whole shelf was dedicated to Captain America propaganda, and he’d steadfastly decided to ignore it.

(He was _not_ ready to see what the world had decided they knew about him, _or_ what _Captain America_ had become _without_ him.)

He’d lost a week just taking in all these _things_.

Then he’d overheard a neighbor calmly talking one-sidedly about cutting back on their daily coffee to save the _four to five dollars a cup_ to pay for the increase in rent now that it was _nearly two thousand dollars_. Steve had had to sit down, unprepared for the reality of the economic changes that Fury had mentioned off-handedly.

He _remembered_ how hard he’d worked for _pennies_ , and to overhear people talk about the wage they’d earned in an _hour_ being more than he’d made in a _year_ , before talking about paying for things in amounts that were _triple_ what they’d used to be, was _too much_. Hearing people talking about buying things _just_ to own them, not to _use_ , and throwing out things because they didn’t like the _look_ of it anymore – _not_ because it was _literally_ falling to pieces – had been _too much_. Hearing people talk about buying the latest piece of gadgetry as if it was more important than _food_ or _medicine_ or _heat in winter_ , had been _too much_.

It was mind-boggling. It was mind- _breaking_.

He couldn’t even _begin_ to fathom how to adjust to the new value of money; how he was supposed to be able to _tell_ when he was being overcharged or underpaid.

He didn’t _understand_ how people _weren’t_ _rioting in the streets_ over paying _five dollars for coffee_.

(He could almost imagine Bucky’s response to that being that it _better_ be the _best coffee he’d ever had_ , and that a _good_ cup of coffee would be _worth_ that. _He_ couldn’t help but think though, of how much five dollars would add to their rainy-day fund for when he’d inevitably get sick, even if he hadn’t gotten sick since the serum.)

If just money and the value and worth of things had changed so radically, Steve wasn’t sure if he was _ready_ to find out how social matters and politics had changed in the last sixty-plus years. It made him leery to find out what was _in_ that massive file that Fury had sent over of things that he’d deemed _necessary_ to know about this new world.

The file was thicker than his wrist had been before – _after_ the serum, not _before –_ and just skimming over the first page describing what had been going on in the war outside of his personal war on Hydra had been enough to put him off reading the rest.

The end total of the cost of war had been _millions_ of lives; hundreds of thousands of soldiers, and many thousands of civilians caught in the crossfire and killed by soldiers on both sides for one reason or another, or killed in concentration camps. Then there had been _nuclear_ _bombs_ dropped on Japan.

The death toll there was still being updated apparently, because no one had _really_ understood the lasting effects of radiation when they’d been dropped and those two cities were going to be wastelands for a _long_ time.

He'd stopped there, unsure if he was willing to see what _else_ had gone on in order to _win_.

Fury had said they’d won the war he’d fought, but he hadn’t said what they’d _lost_. Steve feared that perhaps the cost had been their _humanity_.

What had the next sixty years cost?

Dr. Erskine had wanted a _good man_. He’d wanted a _good man_ , and instead Steve had spent the first six months of having this strength being a dancing monkey when he could have _prevented_ some of these horrors. Then he’d _slept_ for the next sixty _years_ like a princess in a fairy tale, while who knew _what_ was happening.

 _What had the last sixty years_ cost _?_

Steve wanted to know of the _good_ that had come out of the last sixty years.

He wanted Peggy to smile at him in that slightly indulgent way she did when she thought he was just being over-dramatic, before she calmly told him everything that he _really_ needed to know.

He wanted Bucky to tell him that it wasn’t _wrong_ to be freaked out by everything, and that there _was_ a lot _to_ take in.

(He wanted Bucky to hold him as he soothed fears that he couldn’t voice about what if things had gotten _worse_. Because _what if_ everything they’d fought for – had _died_ for – had become _nothing_ with how fast things had changed, what if they _forgot_ how _much_ they’d fought for things _to_ _change_.)

He wanted Bucky to tell him that he didn’t _have to_ fight to fix every wrong anymore, because others had stood up in his absence and fought the good fight themselves and _won_ those victories _for_ themselves.

(He just wanted _Bucky_.)

Nowhere within that massive packet of information was there anything he could find about those he’d once known. Fury hadn’t left him _anything_ about Peggy, Howard, the Showgirls or the Howling Commandos.

(He wasn’t surprised that there wasn’t anything about the Barnes family though. Not with the elder Barnes’ lack of aging, or those of his blood’s, _or_ Baba Yaga.

He imagined that Becca would have retreated from the public eye following both his and Bucky’s disappearance, then _fiercely_ guarded her family from anyone who thought to come to them with _questions_.)

He didn’t even show him proof of the search he’d mentioned for Bucky’s body.

At some point, his thoughts circling over and over from what he could see of the packet, over costs, over wanting to know what had _happened_ to the people he’d known, about _Bucky_ , he’d started to get _angry_.

Fury had _said_ that people had looked for Bucky, but _when_ , for how _long_ , by _who_. He’d been left at trusting Fury on his _word_ about Bucky, when _in that search_ was _everything_ that he needed to know over whether he was going to be looking for a _body_ or going on a _hunt_ to _find_ _Bucky_.

For _everything_ he’d done, he’d asked _one thing_ before he’d gone hunting for Schmidt and that had been _bring Bucky home_. He couldn’t know if Colonel Phillips _had_ , or if it had been a _token_ effort.

Or if Fury had talking out of his _ass_ in an attempt to _appease_ him, to keep him doing a _runner_.

Not _once_ had anyone around him offered him empty platitudes that there had been nothing to find of Bucky, not even giving him the _chance_ press that had likely been because _Bucky had walked away alive from that fall_. He would have broken his silence on Azzano and jumping out of Howard’s plane _without a parachute_ to _prove_ that falling a couple of hundred of feet was _survivable_.

He would _gladly_ risk Bucky’s wrath over having done such a _knowingly reckless_ thing because once voiced, it _would_ find its way to Bucky, if it meant that _he could find Bucky_.

(Or more accurately, _Bucky_ find _him_. He was _sure_ that Bucky would rise from the _grave_ – or pop out of the _ether_ just like his grandfather had once to _scare the ever-living shit out of them_ to his cackling amusement at their shrieks – _just_ so that he could yell at him over such recklessness.)

Only no one had even offered him condolences over losing _everything_.

(Over having lost the other half of his _soul_.)

As he got _angrier_ and _angrier_ , it got _easier_ to ignore the reasons why he should _stay_ in this apartment, why he _should_ let himself slowly become accustomed to this new world instead of joining the Grim as it prowled the city, _looking_.

(He could just about _imagine_ Bucky’s toothy smile pressed against the skin between his shoulder blades while kneeling behind him, his arms tight around his middle before whispering into his right ear like always. Practically acting the devil on his shoulder.

 **They _say_ you aren’t a fucking prisoner, then they tell you to fucking _stay put_. Don’t even offer you any fucking reason to _listen_. Those fucking _fools_.**)

Bucky had _known_ better to think he’d _stay_ without hearing _why_ , without _trust_. That even Bucky hadn’t ever been able to corral him _completely_ when he had a _reason_ to _go_ – and he _had_ reason to go _now_.

Bucky had always called him a little shit anyway, a wry smile on his face.

Steve decided that he might as well go _prove_ him right about that, _again_.

It hadn’t even been _hard_ to leave that apartment, with just his dog tags, rosary, candy ring, half-finished necklace of pennies and bottle caps, and compass in hand, information packet rolled up and shoved in one pocket, and then slip into the New York crowd. His sticky-fingers picking up a wallet or two, grabbing any cash, then dropping those wallets near cops, before he’d approached those sitting on the street corners, under awnings, in doorways, and paid for directions to street vendors. He’d bought himself a thing or two to blend into the crowd, to hide his face from any SHIELD agents that would come looking for him once they realized he was _done_ playing along.

His gaze had lingered for a moment or two on the phones everyone was talking on, having left the one SHIELD had given him in the drawer he’d found it in. They seemed to come in all sorts of sizes and colors, with optional wireless headphones that they could use to talk into hands-free. They also seemed _complicated_ , or at the least the one he’d been given had.

Then he wandered through the city, looking for familiar places, _slowly_ working his way _home_.

The city had just changed _so much_ though, that it felt like he’d hardly gotten anywhere by the evening. He was fairly certain that he’d doubled over twice or thrice, trying to refamiliarize himself with streets he’d used to know, but if he was lost, he wasn’t worried. He didn’t have anywhere specific to be, nor was he quite sure what he was looking _for_.

But if someone wanted to pick a fight with him while he loitered in a random alley, he’d _give_ them one.

There was something gnawing at his insides though, and his nerves were shot from how _much_ the world had become – too full of _noise_ , too full of _color_ and _bright_ lights, everything smelling _wrong_ , feeling _wrong_ beneath his fingers that it was all just, _too much_ – that he just wanted something _normal_. A fight would settle the itch beneath his skin that said he was moving _too slow_ , but he had nothing to go on, only that he would know it when he saw it.

(He wanted Bucky to blow cigarette smoke in his face on their fire escape – while they waited for their apartment to cool down some from the unbearable temperatures it’d reached during summer, sharing an indulgent ice cream – or in Miss Clare’s, smiling indulgently from behind his glass of alcohol, lips moving softly as he said _Punk_.)

Steve _knew_ the gnawing in his belly was because he was hungry – _starving_ , really, he could hardly remember when he’d last ate – but he wasn’t craving _food_. Or at least, any of the ‘food’ he’d found stocking that apartment’s cold box and cupboards, as he’d tried brands and things he’d remembered from before the war, few that there had been, but nothing had tasted the _same_. Nothing had tasted the way it _had_. A lot of the other things had tasted chemically, and/or _off_.

The hotdog he’d bought on the street was closest to tasting like it _should_ , but it’d still been _different_.

Everywhere he’d walked, he’d caught the scents of all types of food, from fancy dining in restaurants, to greasy diners, to little food stalls and carts, to various types of grocer’s, made in hundreds of ways, some _nothing_ like he’d seen before. Some he’d wanted to try, others he’d quickly gone the opposite direction from, but even _how much food_ there was, had been _too much_.

He’d hated the bland almost-tasteless taste of some of the army rations he’d eaten during the war, but he almost missed it now. They’d tasted like that _before_ the serum _and_ after he’d gotten it. It had been a small comfort then, and he imagined it would be a small comfort _now_.

(He wondered where Kimmy’s cookbook had ended up, because she’d managed to make _good_ food, even _and_ especially to his enhanced taste.)

He’d gotten used to just swallowing food without tasting it just to ease the constant hunger during the war, when there was more than rations, but everything just tasted so _different_ now that it was hard to do that.

(He’d taken a bite of an apple left in his cold box, and it had tasted _wrong_. He’d felt so _betrayed_ over it.)

Even if there was a familiar feeling of being just a touch lightheaded that said it really _had_ been too long since he’d eaten, he wasn’t _hungry_. He’d kept the hotdog he’d eaten earlier down, but his stomach had rioted over something awful about it – like it had over _most_ things that he’d eaten since waking up in this new millennium – even if the iron stomach the serum had gifted him had kept him from _actually_ throwing it back up.

Instead of trying another new-old thing, he’d opted for some cigarettes, an impulse buy when he’d _recognized_ the brand.

(They weren’t the brand Bucky had preferred. He’d been told that those had stopped being made about a decade ago.

The shopkeeper had chuckled at his crestfallen face, before telling him that if he found somebody with tattooed hands, their mama had a stash since she’d bought up half the city’s stock when the company had filed for bankruptcy. If he offered the right thing, she _might_ be willing to be convinced to give some up apparently.

Steve had just wondered who among the Bratva _remembered_ Bucky’s favorite smokes.)

Steve had lit up and leaned back against a brick wall, closing his eyes as he’d let the sound of the city wash over him.

“ . . Tony’s going down the same path as his father.”

“That can’t be had.”

“He just needs to be reminded what the right path is.”

“It would be easier to _correct_ the situation like what was done with his father.”

“That Asset of yours is a _permanent_ solution, we still _need_ Tony. This isn’t like with Howard; Tony doesn’t have someone that can replace him. Stark Industries’ position in the market is too weak without him. Hammer despite his lack-luster genius, _is_ just good enough to keep up otherwise.”

Steve choked on an inhale of smoke as he realized that somebody was casually talking about possibly _murdering_ what was likely _Howard’s son_ – talking about how Howard _had_ been murdered, by someone in his company, through someone called ‘the Asset’ – before straining his ears for anything _else_ these two men said.

“Ever the business man, Stane. I know who to reach out to then. They’ll keep Stark alive because he’ll be _useful_. After he’s rescued, he’d be convinced again that building weapons is the _only_ way to impose order on this chaotic world, instead of what? Robotics?”

Steve made a mental note to look up who among the upper echelon of Stark Industries had the name _Stane_ , even as he lingered there in the alleyway for another ten minutes, listening. The two men were in a building, on a floor _well_ above him, somewhere where an open window was so far away from any listening ears that they’d had no worries about someone overhearing – if they didn’t have hearing like his.

 _And_ if they were outside; because it was only _just_ beginning to cool down, but still hot that he could probably fry an egg on the pavement.

One of the men left after writing something down, leaving the other alone.

That second man didn’t say anything else during those ten minutes, or the extra five as Steve looked around for street addresses on any buildings that the men could be in, or the following five while he strained his ears for the first man’s voice at ground level so he could catch a glimpse of Stane’s _face_. He memorized those addresses to look up later, before abandoning the alleyway because he couldn’t hear anything and staying any longer wasn’t going to be productive.

(And because it was _hot_. His back was soaked in sweat by now, and he was more than a little flushed from the heat, his exposed skin pinking with a sunburn.

But _he_ was still _cold._ A part of him wanted to _linger_ still, to soak up the warmth until the _cold_ was banished, but another part suspected that it’d _never_ be warm enough to banish his feeling of being _cold._ )

He ground out his half-finished cigarette and stuffed it back into the pack, as he ducked into the small evening crowd with a more concrete destination in hand.

(For a moment – _just_ a moment – he thought about going back to the apartment, getting in contact with Fury and letting _him_ handle it. SHIELD would have resources and manpower that he didn’t have, people who could do take care of not just Stane but that unknown second man.

A second man who’d sounded just a _little_ familiar, too young to be someone he’d known, but only _just_. A close relative, maybe a child, of somebody he’d met while on tour. He couldn’t quite pinpoint from _when_ and _where_ while on tour, he’d met too many people, but he _knew_ that it’d been more than once. He’d _known_ that relative, and more importantly, he’d had _opinions_ on him. He’d _remember_ , and then all he’d had to do was hear him again somewhere he could _see_ him.

The only problem was that Steve didn’t _know_ SHIELD – and didn’t have _any_ reason to _trust_ them, no matter their _supposed_ connection to Peggy.)


	28. wake to new (old) faces,

Steve had gone to New Odessa, and as he’d walked across the city, he’d looked for anyone with familiar tattoos.

He had a _very_ specific location in mind, following instructions Bucky had once whispered to him in the dark. They’d never talked about Bucky’s ties to the Bratva, but after the attack on Pearl Harbor, there had come a night they’d come _close_ to outright doing so, when Bucky had made sure he’d hear and _remember_ what he said, just in case if something happened to him.

With those instructions came the assurance that if he went looking, the Bratva _would_ answer.

Steve had come calling in Bucky’s name as he walked right up to what had been an old bar right in the heart of New Russia, to the man standing outside the door, dressed in a suit with ink on his skin peeking out at his neck and on his hands.

He’d grinned with teeth at the man, “ _I come in peace, and wish to speak to whomever is in charge of the Bratva here these days._ ”

The man had squinted down – and _down_ – at him, “What do you want with our _pakhan_?”

His grin had gotten wider, sharper, “To call in favors owed to my _patsani_ for his work with the _po ponyatiyam_.”

Steve had never quite figured out how _high_ Bucky had climbed their ranks beyond having his name down on their _nomenklatura_ , but he’d understand that regardless, he’d garnered a _fabhar_ or two. Those favors _would_ be returned because a _fabhar_ wasn’t a layman’s favor; a _fabhar_ was a promise of reciprocity made to return something of equal worth as given.

(Though _technically_ , he could have called in favors for his military service, but those tended to come with _strings_ attached. Ideally, if he could find some of Ghost Company, he was sure that he could rally _them_ up to help him look for Bucky, but it had been sixty years, even if they were willing that he wouldn’t send them to their deaths pointlessly.)

“Who is this _patsani_ of yours?”

Steve pulled out the dog tags he’d put back around his neck, and gave the name Bucky had said he’d be known as, his _klichka_ , “ _Dragon_.”

Bucky had chosen to go by the name his grandfather had once gone by, whose blood they carried and never forgot they did when they flashed gold eyes.

“ _Golden Eyes??”_

Steve looked up from where he’d been thumbing at the familiar grooves of Bucky’s name to see the stunned look on the man. The big man’s eyes went wide as he realized what he’d just heard before rapidly, instinctively, checking their surroundings like he expected someone to come out of the shadows just for _saying_ that name.

(Because Bucky _would_. He totally would pop out of the ether for somebody saying his _name_ , wondering _why_. And if it _wasn’t_ for a _good_ reason, he’d probably the scare the ever-living shit out of them to remind them to not take _his_ name in vain in echo of the Old Testament.)

Then he narrowed his eyes on him, “And who are _you_ to _Zolotoy Glaz_?”

Even with the narrowed eyes, Steve could read the man’s awe and his respect mingling with _fear_ at Bucky’s moniker, that said _everything_ it needed to that it’d been sixty-three years and it was a name _still_ whispered in the dark for fear it would _summon_ him. He couldn’t imagine that many would be brave enough to even _try_ to invoke Bucky’s name, even _if_ he’d been thought dead.

(Maybe even _especially_?)

He barked out a bitter laugh, because what _had_ he been to Bucky? They’d never named it, never _let_ themselves name what was between them, and certainly never _acknowledged_ it. Steve had _loved_ him, but he’d never known _for sure_ that Bucky had loved him back, and he had never let _Bucky_ know he’d loved him.

“I was his . .” His voice cracking because he _knew_ what he’d _wanted_ to be, “He called me _Punk_ , from the day we met, to the day he—”

The man stepped aside, opening the door into the dimly lit building as Steve pulled himself back together, _refusing_ to let the tears fall because he _had_ to believe Bucky was _alive_ and once Bucky stood in front of him again, _then_ he’d cry.

“The _pakhan_ is elsewhere on business, as is his heir, but _Mama_ is here.”

Steve followed him to the back, to where an older woman lounged watching the room, her long dark thickly-streaked with silver hair coiled in braid down her back. There was a massive dark-furred cat with one golden eye, the other eye and the ear closest to it gone, sitting on her lap.

The creature looked a lot like _Baba Yaga_.

Steve _wanted_ to think _coincidence_ , but it wasn’t _impossible_ to be the _actual_ Baba Yaga. If it _was_ , then that meant the woman – the vaguely _familiar_ woman who looked a _lot_ like Winifred from the side, even without seeing her _face_ – would be _Becca._

The woman turned away from she was glaring into the phone she held with one hand, and the other petting the Baba Yaga-esque cat, “Vlad, I _told_ you—”

Her voice cut off as they stared at each other for a moment, the first time they’d seen each other since she’d come to his show in Philadelphia, when he’d been _big_ and she’d just started to become a _woman_ instead of just a curvier Bucky.

“You look good, Becca.” His eyes dropped to the probably-not-a-cat on her lap, considering this was _Becca_ , “Do I _want_ to know if that’s the Baba Yaga _I_ know? Or are we still pretending your eldritch creature of a pet isn’t just cat _-shaped_?”

Becca laughed, before smiling widely, “Stevie!” Baba Yaga casually jumping down off her lap just before she bounced up and off the couch with the energy of the little girl who’d chased her big brother all over Brooklyn, “We all thought you were _dead!_ ”

Then she’d grabbed his face between her hands, leaning down and giving him a kiss on each cheek, before pulling into a hug, spinning him around a few times before pulling away only enough to meet his eyes, “ _How_ are you still alive?!”

Her eyes glittered like gold, and even if Steve knew everyone _else_ would rightfully be _afraid_ to look at a Barnes when their eyes shined with the proof that they weren’t exactly _human_ – only really human- _shaped_ thanks to the elder Barnes – it always been a _comfort_ to _him_ , because they were _Bucky’s_ eyes.

“The _bean sidhe_ didn’t scream for me, and the Morrigan did not come.” He met those eyes evenly, “The serum kept me alive instead, suspended in the ice as Beira held me in her cold hands until I was ready to wake again, _ready_ to continue the Hunt.”

His shadow rumbled, an echo of the Great Dog’s baying elsewhere rippling the fathomless black as he _hunted_. Her eyes glanced down as if she could _hear_ that, when he’d found _most_ couldn’t, or at least not _properly_.

(To _most_ , it was more the sudden, abrupt, feeling of someone stepping on their grave, and unexplainable _fear_ out of nowhere stopping their hearts in their chests. Or that had been what Peggy had described it as, anyway.

But then again, Becca _wasn’t_ most.)

She didn’t say anything for a moment, “When we were told about Bucky, we _knew_ you weren’t long for this world. The two of you are so intertwined with the other, and have been since we were kids, that you can’t _fathom_ living without the other. One way or another, both of you would go to the other. No matter where in all the worlds, whether among the living or the dead.” – her gaze falling on the wedding ring she wore – “I know how _hard_ it is to resist the urge to _follow_.”

Becca sat them down on the couch, fiddling with her ring as she continued, “After you were gone, _Ded_ told us that sometimes it’s _impossible_ to not follow your heart into the grave. He’d lost his, and gone mad as he’d tried to bring her back into his world instead of following her. It was a hole in his chest that has never healed according to him. Then he found new love, and when he lost them, it was _no_ less brutal but he _only_ stayed among the living because Death would not come for _him_. _Papa_ couldn’t go on after _Mama_ died, passing in his sleep alongside her. And _I_ would have done the same, ten years ago when my husband passed,” – her grin heavy now with grief, _beyond_ just one loss or two – “if not for _certain_ unfinished business.”

Steve pulled her into a hug, because she didn’t need to _say_ it aloud that aside from the elder Barnes – who’d she’d finally outright _admitted_ was probably _immortal_ – she was the _last_ Barnes; that Ana and Evie were _dead_. Becca had outlived both of her parents, and all three of her siblings, as well as her husband.

He would ask her about what sort of _unfinished_ _business_ was _strong_ enough to hold out against heartbreak, later, but she would agree that avenging the dead was secondary to the needs of the _living_.

(To rescuing _Bucky._ The _dead_ could _wait_.)

“When Bucky had been a POW, he’d been at the mercy of a Hydra scientist. We never talked about it right after, or as the war continued on, but the truth was that it wasn’t _Bucky_ was keeping up with _me_. It was _me_ finally keeping up with _Bucky_. I don’t know what Zola did _exactly_ , but I think he was given something like I had been.” Steve was almost certain now, that Bucky’s fall might _not_ have been fatal because Bucky had been made into something _more_ , “If it had been _me_ , I’m fairly certain that I could have survived his fall.”

She pulled back to meet his gaze, a thousand questions in her gold eyes – among them the question of _how_ he knew _that_ , but Steve was going to hold _mum_ on that as an ace up his sleeve in case all else failed if he could – though none of them escaped her for a long moment. Eventually, only one question did, “Are you _sure_?”

It was a rough estimate, but Steve was almost _certain_ that the distance from Howard’s plane to the ground, and Zola’s train to the ground, had been comparable. Close enough that the difference _wouldn’t_ be the difference between life or death.

Becca’s eyes were wide and bright, _hope_ starting to bloom in them as he nodded, “No body was found. He _survived_.”

Then they darkened as she _understood_ what he was afraid to give voice.

(That Hydra had captured Bucky again.

That Hydra had _survived_ Ghost Company’s impending purge, and held onto Bucky through it all, for the next _sixty_ _years_.)

Her lips peeled back for a masquerade of a smile, too full of teeth to be anything but a bloody promise and Steve matched her tooth for tooth because if his fears were _true_ , then _they_ would _come_ for Bucky, and _blood would be spilled_ until he was safe between them again.

(Because Bucky _would_ have returned if he _could_ , so if he _was_ alive and _hadn’t_ come home, it meant _things_. Terrible, _terrible_ , things.

It was _unacceptable_.)

Becca looked to the side towards Vlad, her eyes promising _unilateral massacres_ and her voice like Damascus steel, “Send out word that _Zolotoy Glaz_ may still live. I want him brought _home_.”

~

 _The world was dark and cold, silent, as they slept within the ice they’d been sealed in, having spent years hardly having time to wake before being put back under since “_ Sergeant Barnes” _. For one reason or another, Hydra was taking_ precautions _to not let them be out long, often._ Afraid _to take the risk._

 _A part of him was afraid that even if Hydra didn’t_ know _, that they could still_ sense _on some level that he perhaps_ wasn’t _as docile as they liked to believe, while he just waited for an opportunity to escape their control._

 _The_ _Сол_ д _а_ т _though, smiled with teeth inside, saying that they had_ no _idea, that they didn’t suspect anything from them. Instead, there was_ something _Hunting_ Hydra. _The shadows were rioting, stirring all around them in reaction to_ something _; from their depths, a hellhound’s_ howl _was echoing as it called out for_ someone _._

 _Calling out a_ Name _like it was trying to_ wake _something_ primordial, _something_ old.

 _The_ _Сол_ д _а_ т _thought that the_ something _was_ looking _for_ someone _._

~

A man came into the bar about an hour after Becca had sent Vlad to spread the word, looking a lot like George, except younger than Steve had ever known him as and with wild green eyes.

“ _Mama!_ Remember, you’re _retired_ now, you can’t be stirring my people into action anymore!” His suit lightly rumbled like he’d rushed over without care of his appearance, his slicked back hair looking like he’d been running his hands incessantly through it; overall, looking a little _harassed_ , “I don’t know _how_ you avoided being arrested before, but if you get arrested _now_ , I’m _not_ visiting you in prison!”

He went right over to bar on the other side of the room, leaned over the counter without any regard to the barkeep and pulled out an unmarked bottle, before slamming it down on the table in front of Becca, noisily sitting next to him, “If I did, I’d feel obligated to get you out somehow, but you’d probably be there for all of _five minutes_ before you’d take over and make it your new base of operations.” Not _once_ looking at him, and Steve didn’t know if that was because he was being ignored or just hadn’t been noticed, the man seemed to have a rather single-minded focus as he filled glasses with a _strong_ alcohol, of which just the _smell_ as he popped the wax seal making Steve’s eyes water, but Steve didn’t feel the need to speak up as he just watched. Then the man downed one like it was water before refilling it and giving the other to Becca, “You’ll probably rule over Hell when you die, won’t you, _Mama?_ ”

Becca smiled slightly as she took it, putting an ever-so-slight emphasis on her address of the other man for his benefit, “You say I’d go to Hell, _son_?”

Steve blinked, because he’d _thought_ the man looked like a Barnes.

Only, hearing Becca had been _married_ hadn’t meant that he’d ever imagined her with _children_. Even if Becca now looked older than he’d ever seen Winifred be, Becca was _still_ the buck-toothed little girl who’d punched a boy’s lights out to him. The memory of Becca gagging at the idea of ever kissing a boy, and Bucky just nodding along saying boys were gross little monsters not good enough for her, was still fresh.

The memory of her flipping off anyone who came calling once she’d started to grow up and into herself, throwing out the ultimatum that if they couldn’t beat her in a fight then she wouldn’t even _think_ of dating them, was even fresher.

(She’d said so one of the last times he’d seen her, after Bucky had been drafted and before he’d met Dr. Erskine.)

Bucky was _not_ going to be happy to find out that he’d missed all of his chances to threaten any would-be suitors for his sisters, because he’d been under the enduring impression that _no one_ would be good enough unless they could stand their ground against _him_.

(He’d certainly been working himself into a tizzy over Ana going out on a date with a man he hadn’t met, but _Howard_ had, _and_ thought _was_ good enough for her. Though that had at least _partially_ been because Bucky had always thought Howard had _shit_ taste in friends, even if he’d _been_ one of those friends, and thus did not trust the ‘good enough’.)

“Y- No! No, of course not!”

Becca laughed, “You’re not wrong, Alexei! I’d conquer it while looking for your father.” – before sobering some – “I’d still be better than my brother. _He’d_ storm the gates of Heaven – and _succeed_ against an _army_ of angels.”

Her son paused with his drink raised to his lips, before setting it back down on the table, “ _Ui?_ For his _golubglazaya sokrovishche_ , right? But didn’t you say he died before I was born, so _why’d_ you say _would storm_?”

Steve abruptly colored because _blue-eyed treasure_ was a pet name Bucky had used _very_ rarely. Like, _once_ , the night before he’d left for training. He buried his face in his hands because he _hoped_ Becca didn’t know that, but this was _Bucky_ he was talking about, he couldn’t be _sure_ unless he _asked_ – and he was _not_ asking.

Becca’s eyes were half-lidded as she gave a little sharp-toothed smile, a side-ways smirk, before finishing off her drink, then used one hand to gesture at him while the other refilled her glass, “His _dusha_ lives still, therefore so does he.”

Alexei didn’t blink, just looked uncomprehendingly at him for a long moment before narrowing his eyes like he was both trying to place _why_ he looked familiar and also _instantly_ doubting whatever he’d thought of, going back and forth between those two things for another long moment. Then he carefully set his cup down and took a long swig off the bottle he’d brought before gesturing wildly between him and Becca, “What. The. Ever. Living. Fuck. _Mama_.”

He buried his face in his hands, “ _Please_ tell me I’m not looking at _Captain America_ right now.”

“You’re looking at your hands, Alexei.” Becca’s voice was drier than dust while she slid him her topped off glass, “And it would be _Steve Rogers_ , not Captain America that you’d be looking at if you raised your head.”

“ _Mama_ , I’m _fifty-three_ , don’t you be trying to mess with me too. It’s bad enough that my daughter _lives_ to surprise me.”

Steve actually felt a _little_ bad when Alexei lifted his head just enough to give his mother dead eyes, when she made a quiet considering noise, “ _Ded_ always said it builds character. He’d know considering _he’d_ pop out of _nowhere_. Literally. Sonia really takes after him, just like Bucky does.”

“ _Does_? _Mama_ , Bucky’s been _dead_ longer than I’ve been alive. The dead don’t come back to life.” Alexei sighed long-suffering before looking more closely at him, “Or _do they_ , if I’m _really_ looking at _the_ Steve Rogers.”

His eyes were sharp on him, scrutinizing as he seemed to shift from disbelief to skepticism.

Steve took a sip of the nose-burning eye-watering alcohol and almost spat it back out as it _burned_ going down. The serum might have prevented him from getting drunk but this was _absinthe_ , practically _pure alcohol_ , even _he_ would get tipsy for a few minutes after a couple of glasses, and it would probably _kill_ anyone else – except maybe the Barnes, _apparently_ , considering Becca and Alexei’s _non_ - _reaction_ to it.

Becca didn’t say anything for a moment, looking aside even as they turned towards her because that was a rather _pointed_ pause.

“Seriously, _Mama_?”

“Well, _technically_? Coming back from the dead isn’t _impossible_. It’s not _easy_ , certainly. According to _Ded_ it is some _seriously_ dark magic. Or at least, one way is? There _are_ other ways though, since there _is_ an amount of truth in a lot of the old stories. However, the _cost_ in a lot of those stories, isn’t _small_.”

Steve wanted to be surprised at that, but he’d heard the elder Barnes stories, had regularly seen the Morrigan, traveled with the Grim in his shadow, and even met the woman he thought was _Death_. There was _truth_ in the old stories, though the details got twisted, changed, and sometimes forgotten.

(Most of the ones he knew were _not_ kind to the seeker, and demanded near-impossible trials.

Almost all of them demanded that _blood_ would be shed, sometimes in vain and sometimes in tribute, sometimes indirectly and other times also intentionally. All of them requiring a _sacrifice_ of some sort, and _always_ something that even the most hard-hearted would hesitate at.)

She cleared her throat in the silence, “Steve has always been and always will be _Steve_. He is a _singular_ existence, unequaled. I’d have to be deaf, blind, and dumb to not know him.” – before she looked fondly at him, smiling – “I will always know him, no matter what he looks like, because his soul will always be _brighter_ than all the others, and bigger than his body could _ever_ be.”

Tears budded unbidden to Steve’s eyes because it didn’t _matter_ what body he was in; he’d always be _Steve_ to Bucky. Bucky would _always_ know him. A part of him had feared Bucky _wouldn’t_ when they met again.

(He’d said once, _a dragon will never forget its most loved treasures, no matter how it is reshaped and reforged_. He’d thought it a random comment to make, out of nowhere with no explanation.

But it had come along not long after he’d started wearing dresses on the regular.

And again, after Azzano.

He’d been blind to _why_ Bucky would say that, but _now_ , he _understood_.)

She then turned to her son, “We think Bucky could have survived his fall, and was found by someone. Someone who hid him from the world, and kept – _is_ keeping – him prisoner. At the _very_ least though, his body was never brought home when it _should_ have been found.”

The older(?) man’s skepticism seemed to fade slightly beneath his mother’s complete confidence that he was exactly who he said he was, “If _hypothetically_ , you’re right and _Ui_ is _alive_ , _how_ is he alive? You told _me_ Agent Carter told _you_ herself that he fell from a _speeding_ train _into a_ _gorge_ , which was _hundreds_ of feet deep in the dead of _winter_. Any _single_ part of that would be a _miracle_ to survive _on its own_ , even for _us_.”

Alexei _looked_ at him, when he spoke up for the first time since he’d arrived, “Because _I_ could have. I _did_ , technically. What I was given to make me _more_ , Bucky was given a version of when he was a POW of Hydra.”

It was silent for a long moment as he seemed to process that.

A _long_ moment as he seemed to do some mental calculations, hit a wall, re-did them, found a different wall, re-did them _again_ , then seemed to come to some sort of slow-dawning realization. Horror seemed to wage with anger on his face once he had.

Then quietly, but with _feeling_ , “ _Fuck._ He’s _alive_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #pakhan – chief of band/crime boss #patsani – young man/warrior of the vor #po ponyatiyam – gentleman’s agreement; used as security services #nomenklatura – a list of influential posts #klichka – alias, moniker, nickname


	29. wake to new (old) places -

As the Bratva had started to move into action to _find Bucky_ , Becca had settled him into her home.

(Which also, was _significantly_ cooler than he expected it to be, and _far_ less muggy.)

As it had been rather late in the afternoon when they’d got to her apartment, they’d just eaten and gone to sleep without talking about much more for the night. He’d ignored the sleep clothes Becca had given him like he had SHIELD’s, the color and fabric less eye-rending or skin-irritating but he’d finally started to get used to the pants, shirts, and socks he was already wearing; he might actually sleep in these, and they were clean, he’d washed them in the morning.

Then Steve had laid down on the too-soft mattress for a bit, trying to sleep before he’d pulled a blanket and pillow to the floor like he’d done in the SHIELD place. He’d stared up at the ceiling, and even if it had been _years_ – practically a lifetime – and the war had taken him over at least a quarter of the world, and he’d slept in _many_ different places during those years, part of him still expected to be looking up at a familiar water-stained off-white ceiling.

Only to _find_ a water-stain.

A startled laugh had burst out from his lips before he’d known it, because maybe this wasn’t _his_ Brooklyn, and Becca’s building looked a lot better than anything he’d slept in before, but at least _this_ building showed the wear and tear of its years unlike that other apartment.

It was just like the stew Becca had given him after his stomach had loudly rumpled at the smell coming in through the door, a better new-old than anything he’d had so far, that had smelt _good_. It had _tasted_ good too, still different than anything from before he’d gone into the ice, but it’d also been _familiar_. It’d tasted less chemically and more spice and fat.

The blanket she’d pulled out of her closet to put on his bed was a massive wool monstrosity, prickling and scratching against his skin in familiar ways as it almost swallowed him whole when he folded it over himself and was soon cocooned in _warmth_.

(It didn’t matter that it was _summer_ , and he’d been sweating in the heat all day, a part of him was still _cold_. He’d rather be too hot than cold.)

He fell asleep before he knew it, sleeping through the night as Becca’s radio crooned Frank Sinistra amongst the familiar city night noise.

A car alarm going off in the street woke him up with a start, sending him rolling sideways to dodge before getting tangled in the blanket and half-wedged under the bed. His heart was pounding in his chest because he _still_ expected to be victim to Bucky’s Be-Ready-For-Action-At-All-Times training that had come after Azzano and he’d found out that he’d gotten exactly _zero_ preparation for being out at the front, because his boot camp hadn’t been _boot camp_. Which had resulted in Bucky somehow managing to escalate his ghost-cat and _seeming to almost literally come out of the fucking ether_ talent to the next level to the point that the only way to _not_ get body-slammed or have a rock hit him square on the forehead at the slightest inattention was to _react_.

(The _less_ said about what happened after Becca had sent over a Bucky Bear a few weeks later and Bucky had involved it in his _training_ , the _better_. No matter what Jaq had said, he had _not_ cried when Bucky managed to fling it off a cliff when he’d relaxed thinking the training was over with its arrival.

He’d cried when _Bucky_ had followed two seconds later with an _oh-shit_ look on his face, and jumped into the river. He’d given Bucky a black eye when he’d come back drenched, the bear soaked through. Bucky had been weirdly proud of the black eye.)

His jaw wobbled as he tried to keep a stiff upper lip when he _didn’t_ hear Bucky start cackling and say something along the lines of _your face-!_ because Bucky was unrepentantly an _asshole_.

(If he didn’t succeed, at least Becca wouldn’t call him on his red-rimmed eyes.)

He stayed there, half-wedged beneath the bed as soft jazz echoed in the apartment alongside Becca’s slow steady breathing. Eventually, he rolled out, blanket coming with, once Becca woke up as the light started to stream through the curtains.

He’d come out of the room as Becca did, blanket dragging behind him from where it was draped over his shoulders despite the way he was sweating a little under it, to sit at the kitchen table when she gestured at it. Her smile was kind as she ruffled his wild hair on the way into the kitchen proper, “How you’d sleep?”

Steve immediately tried to fix his hair to lay flat like it should again, “Like I haven’t already slept over half a century.”

The smile didn’t falter, “Good! You were looking a little maniac yesterday; I was half-expecting you to have stayed up all night staring at the ceiling.” – even as he paused mid-finger comb as he winced guiltily because she wouldn’t have been _wrong_ – “I remember Bucky having to sit on you just to get you out of your head sometimes.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, because he _remembered_.

Bucky had always been so careful to lay on him _just_ enough to pin him but not so much he couldn’t move away if he wanted, or couldn’t breathe. It had settled him when his thoughts had just spun round and round and round, to feel the warm line of Bucky against him, over top him, the steady beat of his heart slowly lulling him to sleep.

(The blanket reminded him of that, a little.)

Becca turned on her stove, pulled things out of her cold box, pulled out a pan, and started cooking before he finally responded, “He looked as smug as any cat when he’d just drop himself on me, all two hundred pounds, elbows and knees right in my kidneys, after I got big, laying there no matter how I tried to push him off until I stopped fretting over the mission plans for the next day. Then laugh when we’d break the chair from our combined weight and my struggling.”

She dropped slabs of bacon on the pan, and they immediately started sizzling, his mouth soon watering at the hearty scent.

“What an asshole, right?” He chuckled quietly at that because wasn’t that the _truth_? Bucky was, had been and always would be, an _asshole_.

Once she’d made a small mountain of meat on a plate, she started cracking brown-shelled eggs into the bacon grease, dropped a pinch of salt and pepper on the eggs, flipped them, then plated them too. Did it all again, and again.

“You said that you woke up from the ice a little over a week ago? Have you been caught up to some of what’s happened since you went under?”

Steve thought about the packet Fury had given him, that he’d barely skimmed the first page of. It was still burning a hole in his pocket, “Yeah, and somewhat.”

Becca gave him a flat _what the fuck does that_ mean _??_ look over her shoulder as she finished off the entire carton, one eye still on her cooking as she flipped the last couple of eggs.

“An attempt was made, but I haven’t really read any of it.”

She turned off the stove, put aside the pan to let it cool off, brought over two plates and silverware, two cups of cold milk, then the plates of egg and bacon, sat it all down, voice falsely calm, “ _Attempt?_ ”

Steve pause mid-way through at taking a respectable amount of eggs and bacon onto his plate because a voice like that spelled _bad things_ , looked up into her gold eyes, and wordlessly handed over Fury’s packet, “I got through the first page.”

He said grace as she started to slowly flip through the pages, the two of them eating in silence until she was done. Then she’d steepled her hands over top her plate, just looking at him as he finished off the food, “I understand _why_. It’s detailed and does cover most of what you need to know to understand the current world, but its clinical. It gives cause and effect, telling what events lead to now, but it tells the good things like pyrrhic victories, like they are just momentary wins in an endless struggle. It’s _depressing_ to read it laid out like that.”

She sighed, “Unfortunately, it’s probably more accurate than any single history book for explaining the big picture, because a _lot_ has changed in the last sixty-three years. Not just of what’s happened since, but what we know of earlier.”

Becca held out the packet but Steve didn’t take it back right away.

He’d read it later, now that he knew that wasn’t everything, because right now he had so many questions but no idea where to start asking them. He’d undoubtedly find more questions, but he’d have somewhere to _start_.


	30. it's time to return to war.

Steve tried to not fidget – or shiver beneath the (excessively) cold air blowing on him from the building’s air conditioner, _cold_ despite it being a warm September – as he waited in the hall, the last person to be interviewed to become a junior secretary to Anthony Stark, CEO of Stark Industries. Or at least, that’s what it was officially, but _unofficially_ , it was to be the assistant to _the_ assistant. Pepper Potts had managed to hold the job for the last ten years, but prior to her, and any assistant after her, had a legendary turn-over rate.

She was _literally_ the only person who’d stayed on in the last fifteen years for longer than a month for one reason or another.

The job was apparently a little infamous according to Becca, but with that infamy came a surprising high turn-out rate since lasting even two weeks was enough to ensure being hired as a secretary at literally _anywhere_ _else_ because of Stark Industries’ high standards.

Becca had helped him fill out an application after he’d gotten him modern papers with his name, and so he was here even if she’d been a little leery to let him go. She’d _said_ that the papers should hold up to any scrutiny, even up to government investigation – which apparently now days _meant_ something more than it had when he’d filled out five different sets of enlistment papers and was only caught by the SSR, which didn’t _count_ – but if they _were_ going to fail, it would be under the scrutiny of an entity like Stark Industries who _regularly_ , almost on the _daily_ , suffered attempted corporate espionage.

(Only _attempted_ because Stark Industries had apparently gotten _very_ good at double-checking any and every employee since Howard had had to have an employee deported back to Russia after helping them get asylum because he’d been about to sell one of Howard and Evie’s greatest incomplete inventions on the black market.)

He hadn’t been able to pass up the opportunity on finding an in to Howard’s son after Stane – apparently Stark Industries’ _CFO_ , who’d been _Howard’s right hand man in the company_ , and the man who’d been in charge until Tony had taken over after his father’s death – had been talking about kidnapping and murdering him. Even if it had only been a month since he’d come to the Bratva and found Becca, having barely worked his way through the packet and gotten familiar _enough_ with technology that he could work most appliances.

(The cellphone was still a little hit-and-miss though, because he understood _how_ to use it, but _using_ it was a little different. The basic and common apps he’d gotten used to, but he wasn’t practically _glued_ to it like others of his ‘age’; his age _disregarding_ the years in the ice.

He hadn’t seen Sonia’s friend – M, like in ‘James Bond’ – _once_ without her phone, always texting or talking on it, working on it as she dragged the Bratva as a whole kicking and screaming into the modern era.)

Considering though that Howard’s son had made the company even _more_ famous – doubly so for its revolutionary technological advances – Steve just hoped that he _was_ good enough to keep up.

Becca had thought he’d had the best shot though, being too stubborn to quit regardless of Tony’s reputation as a demanding boss.

He was still nervous though, the last of ten other candidates who’d all come in _confident_ that they had what it would take to get the job. He refused to cower though, as he played with the hem of the suit jacket Becca had put him in, wrist jangling softly in the quiet.

Becca had helped him dress up for the interview, smiling as she’d handed over thigh high black nylons with a garter belt, a pair of women’s undergarments in a familiar shade of dark blue, and a suit a lot like Bucky’s from before the war. She’d told him that it was _okay_ now to dress like this now openly, that if he _wanted_ , he could be Steve or Steph or _whatever_ , as long as he was _happy_.

(He’d been stunned by that, not sure how to _feel_ because maybe it’d _begun_ as a game, kept up so long because Steph was the only way he could be _together_ in public with Bucky, but he’d enjoyed it, _missed_ it once he’d gotten big.

Danny had told him once that they weren’t ashamed of how they were, sometimes male, sometimes female, something neither, because there _wasn’t_ anything to _be_ ashamed of. He hadn’t believed them wholly then, because if they had gone out in a dress and kissed Kimmy in front of God and everyone like they’d kiss her when it was dark and they thought no one was looking, it wouldn’t have ended _well_.

He wasn’t sure if he wholly believed Danny _now_ that there wasn’t something to be ashamed of.)

Once he’d gotten dressed, she’d shown him make-up unlike anything he’d worn before, before outlining his eyes then shadowing above them, and brightening his lips. He’d let her show him this new subtler style, but he’d still picked out lipstick that had reminded him of Peggy.

He smiled despite the nervousness as he felt the weight of his earrings pulling on his ears, tapping against his neck with the faded six-pointed star and B.B. only where he could see them beneath the screw-on clips.

(They were handmade, sweetheart jewelry from Bucky that he’d never gotten to see during the war. Apparently, Bucky had sent them to Becca while he’d been on tour to keep until the war was over, and she’d handed them over once he’d finally made it home from the war.)

They went well with Bucky’s dog tags around his neck, candy ring resting alongside his rosary beneath his button-up, half-finished bracelet of coins and bottle caps wrapped around his wrist.

He traced the cascading fall of pennies, francs, and Reichspfennigs among soda caps under the sleeve of his shirt for a moment before looking up when he heard the soft echoing _click-click-click_ of a women’s heels against the floor to see a tall red-haired woman wearing an off-white dress come down the hall towards him. Right away, he could see that it hadn’t been a coincidence with the name _Potts_ ; she looked just like Virginia had some sixty years ago. He’d thought so before when she’d come for the other candidates, but it really was _undeniable_ that they were related. He could almost see the same fine lines around her bright eyes in a slightly longer face

Once she was in the doorway, she looked at him for a second, glanced down at her tablet as if to double-check she had the right name, then back at him, “Hello, Mister Rogers? You can follow me now.”

He stood up and found that she was a head taller than he was now, but he met her eyes evenly as made to follow her, more used to looking up then he had ever been to looking down. She smiled faintly, “Was your mother a Captain America fan?”

Steve had expected the question after Becca had warned him, but part of him still wanted to laugh. If his mother had lived a few years longer lived, she _would_ have, “Not quite. Ma was a fan of him before he got big, when he was picking fights with bullies in the back-alleys.”

The best part of any assumptions made about his name would be that no one would ever think he was _the_ Steve Rogers even if anyone knew he’d come out of the ice. The world knew him as he’d been big, and now he could just live the life he’d hoped to after the war, with a Bucky-shaped hole.

He intended to take full advantage of it.

Pepper lead him down the hallway she’d from hall, and into an office at the end, gesturing at a seat in front of the desk as she went around to a second high-backed chair, “Please sit.”

He took a seat as did she, before she started, “Looking over your resume, you’ve worked a number of odd jobs over the last couple of years, but nothing like secretarial work. Most of those who’ve applied have done similar work before, was there a reason why you applied for this job specifically?”

As there was no way he could say _I overheard your CFO plan to scare your boss straight by having a terrorist group kidnap him sometime in the near future_ , Steve edged around it, “A while back, Howard Stark did me a _fabhar_ that I couldn’t repay before he died. I’d like to pay it back however I can.”

She blinked, “ _Fabhar_?” Even if she didn’t know Gaelic, _fabhar_ wasn’t far off from its English equivalent, and she quickly got it, “A favor?”

“Yes, and no. If it’s translated literally, then yes, but a _fabhar_ is no layman’s favor. It is _more_ ; like a fae favor. What is given must be repaid in equal worth.”

Steve could see on her face that Pepper didn’t quite _get_ what he was saying, but he hadn’t expected her to. It wasn’t talked about much, not even when he’d been a kid, more something done beyond closed doors and among the older generation. His mother had taught the concept to him amongst her stories of the fae, a warning that for every good turn, there was a price, and nothing was free. She’d taught him to never ask for something that he couldn’t one day repay, because he’d never know who he was _really_ asking – if he would be asking a man or a fae – and because men were sometimes _worse_ than the fae over a debt.

(A fair trade; what value was laid upon the favor asked was the favor expected in return. If it was a life that had been saved, it was a life owed; a lifetime that was to be given in service. A child for a child.)

He’d owed Howard for his help getting to Azzano, “When no else would help, he did. He gave me a chance to get my best friend – the man I love – when he needed me.” Steve fingered a lira hiding among franc, as he elaborated for Pepper, “Howard would have thought nothing of it, just a lift to someone he hardly knew at the request of a woman he liked, but it meant _everything_ to me that I got to Bucky in time to get him out of a dangerous situation.”

Even if he knew that since Howard had died sixteen years ago, and he was twenty-six – because that was how old he’d been going into the ice, and how old he _looked_ , roughly – that she wouldn’t understand – would _misunderstand_ – the true worth of Howard’s earned _fabhar_. His reasons would appear a bit childish without him _properly_ explaining what Howard had done for him, but there was really nothing else to say for why he wanted the job despite his inexperience that wouldn’t make him look desperate. While properly explaining would just make light of his debt, or make her suspicious of why he thought working here could even remotely be of _equal_ worth to his debt towards Howard.

Pepper tapped at her tablet a few times, “Personal motivations aside, what makes you want to work at Stark Industries?”

Honestly, Steve didn’t know _what_ sort of job he _wanted_ to do, but what he’d been trained in before the war wasn’t really applicable anymore. Seamstresses had been a bit of a dying breed, and there had been so many medical advancements that he was hardly qualified to give anything more than emergency first aid nowadays.

Ideally, he’d like to return to art, but there was a _reason_ why he was _here_.

“Stark Industries is the best at what it does, and unlike most big businesses that try and match it, the company actually takes care of its employees and doesn’t exploit them.” She raised an eyebrow, looking a little surprised at the blunt statement. He continued, to give that a little _context_ for why that was _important_ to him, “My Ma’s family came from Ireland during the rise of big industry, and the English exploited them for decades for pennies. Her mother died trapped in a locked building during a factory fire, and her father couldn’t _not_ work the next day to put bread on their table.”

Steve smiled faintly, because Becca had told him about Howard hiring Evie, “Stark Industries has, from the beginning, given more than fair wages, hired and promoted women, and offered a full range of benefits and medical care to each and every employee regardless of position. It’s been a firm defender of anti-discrimination in the workplace, regardless of sex, gender, race, sexual orientation, and religion for decades, _well_ before any other business, or even the _country_ for that matter. Labor standards – and consequently, worker productivity – are also higher here than any other business. Most employees remain with the company for years, while some have stayed for decades.”

She covered her face with a hand, but there was the hint of a smile behind it and laughter in her voice, “That’s the first time someone has ever said that to my _face_.”

After a moment, she straightened up, looking more relaxed than she had since interviews had started, before turning her tablet around so that he could read it, “I would like you to try to schedule out a single day, with these possible events, accounting for the fact he will not make appearances before nine am and barring evening parties, after five pm.”

He took the tablet and started scanning over the list of twenty events, including charity parties, public events, company showings, board meetings, and scheduled time in the lab. Each one had either set time and place, or time frames and dates they needed to be completed by, various locations each might take place at with corresponding travel times from Stark HQ, and with details of the minimum amount of time that each would take. He started separating them out by priority and who had the most immediate deadline.

“Once your background check is completed, I will have you start immediately and spend the first few days shadowing me. Be aware that most days will a minimum of twelve hours long, starting at six or seven in the morning and sometimes going to midnight, and on average, half of that will be constantly on our feet. I’d recommend shoes with good support, and broken in before you start.”

Then he separated out those which fell outside the window of time for the day that Tony wouldn’t.

“Then over the next four days, you’ll gradually take over some of my responsibilities, different ones on different days until we iron out what you will do and what I’ll still do. Your first two weeks will ultimately be a probationary period.”

Once he’d sorted all the events out, he quickly filled out the schedule, before handing it over and she skimmed over it.

She smiled as she put it aside, “If you pass the background check, I will email you with further job details and your starting date. Let me welcome in advance, Steve, to Stark Industries, I believe you will do well here.”


	31. yet, reality is an illusion -

Within the day, Steve received an email from Pepper that would have him start in the morning. Becca took him out to celebrate at a restaurant, then a museum.

The restaurant was Italian, and went down in his new little booklet as _decent, would come back_. Becca had encouraged him to write down every place he tried food at, taking notes of what was good and/or bad, and whether it would rank coming back to. He felt like a food critic doing so. Admittedly though, he was both trying new foods – which was always helpful when taking in a ‘new’ culture, which this future undeniably _was_ – and keeping track of the ones that did _not_ agree with him.

(The _less_ said about ‘fruit salad’, the _better_.)

So far, he’d found it hit-and-miss over any of the food he’d had before, what with there just being a lot more _flavor_ in the same dishes now thanks to the ‘relatively’ inexpensive price of spices, and ‘better’, fresher quality in ingredients. Overall, breads were less gritty, most meats had a faintly chemical aftertaste, most cheeses were the same as long as they weren’t powdered or ‘string’ cheese, milk was filtered better and slightly watery, though more so the closer it was to ‘fat free’, and fruits and vegetables tasted _off_ unless they were organic.

(Becca had flat-out, outright _refused_ to let him go shopping with her when she’d stopped going to the local grocer for her fruits and vegetables when he’d told her about that cursed apple from the SHIELD apartment. Supposedly, he’d have a _conniption_ if he saw the prices for food if he went anywhere that _wasn’t_ the local grocer, who’s prices hadn’t changed in the last _twenty_ _years_ for most things. He’d already flailed wordless at seeing Becca pay over a dollar for a gallon of milk there, so he’d unhappily accepted that was for the best right now.

He _had_ also walked _right_ _back_ _out_ of the department store that she’d tried to take him to for a few changes of clothes, because the _prices_ were _outrageous_ for a pair of _jeans with holes in them_. They’d later compromised by going to a thrift store.)

The history museum was a _delight_ though.

Becca had steered him away from anything more recent than the industrial revolution because he’d already started a fight the last three times with a tour guide over the accuracy of some of their information about the twenties and thirties.

(It’d been a full-blown rant when it had come to organized crime though, because it seemed like everyone only really wanted to know about _Al_ _Capone_ , but _forgot_ people like Paul Kelly, Lucky Luciano and Meyer Lansky, Bugsy Siegel, Arnold Rothstein, Dutch Schultz – who he _may_ have worked for before Miss Clare’s, retrospectively – Lepke Buchalter, and honorable mention, Jimmy Hines. Becca had had to drag him away before he’d started on Murder Inc.)

She outright _refused_ to let him _near_ the exhibit on Five Points before he’d done more than know there _was_ one.

As it was, she didn’t let him linger in the industrial revolution section _long_ on the way back because he had _opinions_ over the big business that had popped up, the union movement, and labor laws that had sprung around then. He’d almost gotten into a fist fight with someone who’d sneered over the unions, calling them _unnecessary_.

(Only _almost_ because Becca had _bodily walked_ _him out_ before he could do more than start to turn to the man and call him out over it, yelling at him the whole way out of the museum. Admittedly, Steve was a little surprised they’d been _welcome_ _back_ after, but then again, they _were_ currently being followed by a security guard and had received a stern warning upon entry.)

The civil war section was fascinating as always, even if it focused more on the issue of slavery as the leading cause of the war without much focus on state’s rights.

He adored the dinosaur exhibit and ice age exhibit the most though. So much of it was _new_ to him, without any conflicting knowledge from before his time in the ice.

~

The next morning, he’d dressed up much the same as he had for the interview but in a dark-blue pinstriped suit and a white blouse, then his make-up re-applied with his hair gelled back with pomade.

Pepper had greeted him in the lobby, and as she went through the morning, he trailed at her heels, asking questions.

Then she took him up to the top floor, and he heard music that Sonia called the ‘classics’ even before the elevator doors opened. She led the way to a massive workspace where a man was working at some sort of holographic projecting table, his back to them. He was dressed in a black cotton T-shirt with burn holes scattered all over it, and jeans, and _not_ in a well-tailored suit while tall enough that if he was still _big_ he’d only barely be looking down instead of only looking a little up from where he was now, but his back looked so much like _Howard_.

She tapped in a code into the side of the glass doors separating the workshop from the rest of the floor, while he couldn’t look away from what must be _Howard’s son_ , then once they were open, called out, “Tony!”

The man startled, smacking his hip on the table when he turned around, “Pepper--? Ow!” – dramatically holding a hand over his heart as the other hand rubbed at his hip – “I’m awake _now_ , Jesus Christ, as if I wasn’t _before_.” Then looking off to the side, “ _Warn_ a man, JARVIS, I’m too _young_ to die of a heart attack.”

A male voice spoke up from the ceiling, “Sir, there have been cases of men dying of a heart attack as young as twenty-five years old. You are _well_ beyond that.” – making Tony pout slightly while Steve looked around for who was speaking, but his hearing _really_ wanted to say it was coming from the _ceiling_ , “Call me _old_ , why don’t you. It’s thirty-eight years _young_ , JARVIS.” – “Perhaps it is all the greasy food you eat, ordering late at night and at brunch, _if you eat at all_. Sir.”

 _Whoever_ was speaking though, was capable of _incredible_ amounts of dryly given _sass_ ; Steve _immediately_ liked them for it.

Pepper smirked, as she started coming closer, and Steve belatedly followed after a moment, “You have to have a _heart_ to have a _heart_ attack, Tony. The world would be _shocked_ to know you have one.”

Tony’s pout got a little more defined, before clearing up as he noticed him, blinking, “Who are you supposed to be?”

(“ _Who are you supposed to be?_ ”

“ _Captain America_ ”)

“Steve Rogers.”

His face did an interesting thing, flipping through a couple expressions almost too fast to be seen, before looking at Pepper, eyebrows practically in his wild dark hair, jabbing a thumb in his direction, “Is he serious?”

He didn’t wait for her to answer, coming closer until he was barely a step away, “Are you just _that_ patriotic? Do you sleep with a folded flag beneath your head, and wear the uniform around the house? Call your best friend Bucky and pretend to gallivant half-way across war-torn Europe punching Hitler in the face?” Derision practically dripping from each word, “I’d have changed my name, personally.”

The soldiers of the 107th before Azzano had _liked_ him more than Tony did right now.

“Tony—!" Pepper’s voice was sharp, disappointed and upset.

Steve didn’t blink, “My Ma gave me my fucking name, _asshole_ , and I’m _only_ fucking changing it when I _marry_ my fella.” – clutching at his dog tags with the candy ring, the _proof_ that Bucky _would have_ married him even before Steph, though he hadn’t seen it then, narrowing his eyes – “But it’s not _legal_ , and anyway, _Bucky’s_ been declared dead. Even _without_ a body.”

Tony blinked rapidly a few times, mouth open and closing a few times like he didn’t know _what_ to say, then he _laughed_ , “You’re a little firecracker! I _like_ you!”

Pepper sighed loudly behind him.

“Oh, sorry for your loss. But _seriously_?” Tony squinted his eyes at him, “Were you _trying_ to follow in the doomed footsteps of your namesake? Was his name _really_ Bucky?”

“James, but he hated the name, thought it made him sound like an old man. His Ma called him Buck, and it’d stuck before I met him when we were seven.” Steve smiled faintly, _remembering_ how _annoyed_ Bucky had gotten over being made into his _sidekick_ in the Captain America legend, dressed in bright blue clothes that included tiny shorts and an _embarrassing_ little hat, then _immortalized_ as a toy bear, “His sister sent him a Bucky Bear once as a gag gift on his birthday, and he _hated_ it. That asshole tried to set it on fire once, then _actually_ threw it off a cliff into a flooded river another time. His cat would sleep on its face if it couldn’t sleep on _his_ face.”

Becca had shown him the beat-up toy next to the Ameribear Bucky had blatantly made in (jealous) revenge for how much he’d _liked_ the Bucky Bear a little early for his birthday, a couple of days before he’d fallen from the train. The Howling Commandos must have sent them to her after he’d gone down in the _Valkyrie_ a couple of weeks later.

Tony’s face did a few complicated things, voice a little faint, “He did _what_? To the Bucky Bear? Those things are collector’s items! I’ve bought one-of-a-kind cars for _less_ than they’ve sold for.”

Steve took a moment to think over Bucky’s _training_ after he’d shoved the bear off on him, counting off on his fingers, “Threw it in the campfire, ‘accidentally’ shot it when Jaq threw it at where he’d been sleeping, ended up tearing an arm off, stabbed it _and_ me so I bled on it, Asshole bit off an eye that was later replaced with one of Bucky’s coat buttons—" Tony looked increasingly _horrified_ with each incident, so he cut himself off before he mentioned the time that Bucky _may_ have thrown it at a Hydra soldier’s face just before Jaq blew up the building behind him and nearly got it and himself blown up too.

He continued after a moment of mentally sorting through the remaining things the poor toy had suffered at Bucky’s hands for the milder incidents because Tony hadn’t actually _said_ to stop telling him what Bucky had done to the bear, “After the whole throwing it off a cliff _incident_ , he took that outfit – Bucky _hated_ it _so_ much, he spent an hour yelling about how literally _no one_ would _ever_ wear that in a _warzone_ , because it was just _asking_ to be shot, painting a bright blue target on your _ass_ – then viciously cut it into little strips that he individually burned.” – though Steve was actually getting a little concerned he’d _cry_ now considering his face, and he rushed to explain that the poor bear wasn’t left _naked_ and was treated _much_ better after he’d not-cried at its near loss to the river _– “_ Though he _did_ later make a more accurate outfit, an adorable little replica of Bucky’s winter uniform after that. Then he made what he called a ‘Ameribear’, a half-sized scrappy little thing wearing that terrible costume from the tour, so his mini-me would have a mini-me. They share a little wooden shield.”

Pepper put a hand on his shoulder, “Steve,” – then steered him slightly so that he was looking into the far corner of the workshop, where up on a high shelf – “for the love of God, _stop._ ” – was a _Bucky Bear_.

It was practically pristine, only a little rough on the edges from where it’d been well-loved by a child.

Steve looked between where Tony was looking a little haunted, his whole world view shifting slightly to the left, and the Bucky Bear, then back to Tony.

He pulled out his phone, flipped through the photos he’d taken for reference – for things he thought he might want to draw, and things that made him smile – until he got to the photo that he’d taken of the Bucky Bear and Ameribear, so Tony could see most of the damage had been fixed, “It’s not _quite_ as good as new, but you can hardly tell some of what happened to it. Bucky is _very_ good with a needle. He even embroidered a star when he re-attached the arm to hide some of the burns, and you can almost not tell about its close call with fire.”

Tony glanced over, not blinking for a moment, just looking at it uncomprehendingly, “Huh, that really _does_ look just like his winter uniform.”

The voice from the ceiling spoke up again, “Practically _identical_ , sir.”

Steve glanced up, wondering where the man up there was _seeing from_ , and _why_ it mildly sounded like he’d _figured out already_ that it _wasn’t_ just a weird coincidence about his best friend being named Bucky and that he _hadn’t_ actually said that he _wasn’t_ Captain America.

After a moment, Steve put his phone away before looking Tony dead in the eye, “Okay, who else is here? Why are they hiding in the _ceiling_? And _why_ are you and Pepper treating it like its _normal_?”

The other man slowly smirked, looking intensely proud, “That’s _J.A.R.V.I.S._ He’s my AI.”

Steve blinked, “Jarvis . .? . . Artificial . . Intelligence . . . ?”

Tony nodded.

Steve closed his eyes, tilting his head back as his hands steepled over his nose, and loudly inhaling, before saying quietly, but with _feeling_ , “Bucky’s going to be _so_ jealous.”

“ . . _Why?_ ”

“He _loves_ science-fiction. This is just like _R.U.R_. and _Master of the World_ , except _without_ the threat of the extinction of humanity.”

Tony made a face, “Those are so _old_. You’re not even going to mention the marginally more accurate _I, Robot_?”

Steve held up a hand, pulling out a little notebook and writing that down for later reference to look up, before answering, “Nope. Never read it.”

The over-exaggerated dramatic gasp had him looking up for Tony to give a rendition of the Screamer, “Never- never _read_ it?? You- you _fossil!_ You have to _watch the movie!_ Like, _right now!_ ” He caught his wrist and started walking away, “JARVIS! Put the movie on in my theatre room! ASAP!”

Steve let himself be dragged along, bemused over _why_ it was so important that he needed to watch it so urgently, when Pepper’s voice stopped Tony in his tracks, “ _Tony_.” – his foot literally stopped in mid-air – “No. _You_ have work and _Steve_ is shadowing _me_ because he’s _my assistant._ I _just_ hired him, corrupt him _later_. Any _movie-watching_ can wait until _after_ five. There’s a board meeting in _half an hour_.”

He slumped faintly, before letting go, and Steve returned to Pepper while Tony sulkily not-stomped to the far wall, and threw open a massive set of doors. He stepped through them into a room full of clothes, calling back as he started rifling through what looked like suits on the right, “Am I _trying_ to make a _good_ impression?” – then drifting quickly to the right, where more casual clothes hung – “Or am I saying _fuck you_ I’m _the CEO, you can’t make me do anything_?”

Pepper softly sighed, glancing at him from the corner of her eye with a _see what I’ve been dealing with_ look, and Steve started to understand part of the reason _why_ there was such a high turn-over rate, “ _No._ You’re going to make a _good impression_ , Tony. Wear a _nice_ suit that reminds them that you are a perfectly respectable _boss_.”

Genius was a fickle, demanding over-grown child with a five-minute attention span.

Honestly, Tony was making Evie’s worst days look positively _saintly_ since he’d been in the room all of _maybe_ ten minutes and had been all over the place.

“If you _must_ , your tie can be a bit _fuck you_ , but not _blatantly_ , please. You control most of the company but they still hold enough power to make things _difficult_.”

Pepper looked a little long-suffering as she looked askance upwards, before looking directly at him, “The door-in-the-face strategy works better than foot-in-the-door with Tony; it makes him _think_ you made a concession instead of you giving him an inch that he then takes a mile from.” She put a hand to her face, looking genuinely tired, continuing after a long moment, “Also, most of the board members are assholes we inherited after Howard’s death, and I’ve yet to manage to remove with Stane championing their usefulness. Tony doesn’t care enough either way to pick a side as long as he doesn’t have to show his face to them that often, and he doesn’t _have_ to most of the time, since Stane is usually enough and better at making them _happy. S_ o, he only has to come to a meeting every couple of months to give them updates over the direction he’s taking the company in, and that's apparently tolerable.”

She moved away before she saw his face at hearing of Stane’s influence in the company, “Tony! You only have five _fuck you_ ties, it shouldn’t take you more than a few minutes to choose!”


	32. one that doesn't end, and is persistent to its very last breathe -

Steve had been working for Pepper for a week, but most of the duties he’d taken over seemed to be wrangling Tony. He kept an eye on him in lieu of Pepper when she got too busy with paperwork and de-facto running Stark Industries. He bullied Tony into taking breaks every couple of hours, and regularly dropped off water bottles next to him so he didn’t get dehydrated. At the end of his day, most days, he got Tony out of his lab to watch a movie or TV show that had come up during the day, that Tony had realized he didn’t know and refused to let such ignorance stand any longer.

He helped Pepper where he could with her job – as was his _actual_ job – but there were certain aspects he just wasn’t very good at. Legal was one, and HR was another.

(He was good with _people_ , but _not_ so much with just filing a complaint over behavior instead of picking a fight then and there about it. He’d never really stopped being the scrapper from the back-alleys even after he’d went _respectable_ as Captain America.

He also might have been called out for accidentally calling a woman a dame, and they’d made him go to a sensitivity seminar that was rather _enlightening_. They’d seemed rather taken aback when he said that he’d like to go others, and he’d been so _pleased_ over how discrimination wasn’t just casually accepted anymore.

Except then he got in more trouble with them because he had more defined ideas of what was and wasn’t acceptable, and he’d fight people over their attitude.)

What he _was_ good at was sorting through information, organizing it, triaging needs and delegating. He’d gotten _good_ at it during the war – and maybe he’d lost his size, but he’d never lost his _mind_ – where he’d retained thousands of plans of how to win battles and win wars, leading men through hellfire with minimal casualties off far less information.

Pepper didn’t hesitate to take advantage of it – and how good he was with people – by stationing him at her door, only giving her the most urgent things so that she wasn’t buried beneath a thousand requests that either didn’t need to go to _her_ or could _wait_.

Tony wasn’t the only one that he bullied into breaks, or left food and drinks nearby, but Pepper was much more amicable to the suggestion of going out for ten minutes without much more effort put into it. They’d go to the break-room, that was fully stocked, and chat about non-work things for a few minutes as they sipped at _good_ coffee, leaving their phones behind for a few minutes of peace.

It had taken two weeks before Pepper had him come along to an out-of-town conference, and Tony’s chauffeur – and bodyguard – Happy Hogan, had driven them there and back.

The taller, bulkier man hadn’t said much when they were introduced, nor the drive there as he and Pepper had made the most of having Tony trapped in one place to get him to sign off on some paperwork.

Not until after some man had pulled a gun on Tony, yelling something about him needing to die. After Steve’s first instinct had been as Happy pushed Tony down, to kick over a nearby heavy oak table over for cover, mentally cussing at Fury for the lack of his shield as building security took the gunman down.

“You ever think about taking up boxing?”

Steve blinked a little at the non-sequitur, not quite sure where it had come from. It was an obvious reference to his actions during the recent incident but he didn’t quite get the connection with boxing.

“Pint-Sized Fury!” Tony rushed over once Pepper had gotten him loose from law enforcement, hands flying over his thin arms, squeezing at the deceptively dense muscles there, “You are _muscled!_ How?! You’re so _tiny!_ ” – letting go to gesture broadly at him to Happy – “Doesn’t he look like a stiff wind would blow him over??”

Without looking, Pepper called out, “ _Boundaries_ , Tony, respect them!”

He gave a sheepish smile at first her back, then at Steve, “Please don’t report me to HR. They are _terrifying_.” Steve waved him off after a moment, “I’d just punch you in the dick. Just because I’m _small_ doesn’t you can manhandle me as you like. I don’t even let _Bucky_.”

Tony immediately stepped back a little, his knees closing defensively over his groin, “ _Vicious_.”

Steve _smiled_ with teeth without showing a single one, eyes crinkling up, “My fella _likes_ me like this. Always has.” Bucky had always preferred him fighting, as long as he was right there beside him, fighting with him.

Then he let it soften, something truly toothless, as he looked back towards Happy, “To your answer your question, not really? I learned to fight in back-alley brawls, not in a ring.”

“Would you want to learn?”

Steve considered the offer for a moment.

Most of what he knew came from Bucky, then supplemented by Dum-Dum and his lady, and later, Peggy. He’d never really _learned_ how to fight, properly, more brawling and scrapping than anything, but he’d never really thought he’d _get_ to considering how sickly he’d been. Given the opportunity, he’d gladly learn some technique.

Only, with the serum came the fact that he was _considerably_ stronger, and if not careful, he could accidentally kill someone. He’d learned to be _careful_ in his day-to-day life from necessity, but war hadn’t exactly been the place to learn to _hold_ _back_ in a fight. Bucky had still taught him at his request, but in retrospect, he wasn’t entirely sure exactly how _well_ he’d learned to hold back if Bucky had been made into _more_ like him.

He was smaller now though, and even if he still _had_ the serum, he hadn’t gotten the chance to see what he was really working with. He hadn’t really done more than _start_ to feel out the limits of the serum before he’d gone into the ice, not the specifics. Boxing could teach him a few things there.

Everything about the serum had always been a field test anyway; he’d just be careful to decline to spar for now.

“I would.”

The corners of Happy’s mouth turned up slightly and Tony gasped dramatically at the sight, “You- you _smiled!_ ” – only for them to smooth right back down after it was pointed out – “Eight years I’ve known you, and you’ve smiled only a couple of times in front of me.”

“That’s because you’re my _boss_ , and I take my job _seriously_ ; I’m your _bodyguard_ before I’m your _friend_.”

Happy raised an eyebrow, “You have an average of one attempt per week on your life, and _anything_ but my complete attention to _my job_ might mean that I fail to notice a threat, and you _die_.”

“Ah, you _do_ care!” Tony held a hand out over his heart, before he let Happy lead him off to their car, “My heart just grew three sizes.”

Steve followed, eyes narrowed at Tony’s back because that _sounded_ like a reference, one that it’d _really_ stand out that he’d not understand. He pulled out the little notebook he’d wrote _I, Robot_ in, and wrote _my heart grew three sizes_ in reminder to look it up later.

~

 _The shadows were calling, and a part of_ him _wanted to_ answer _. He didn’t understand_ who _was calling, or_ why _, but the voice was an almost-familiar. He_ knew _who was calling into the dark,_ desperate _for a response, their voice_ screaming _into the void; sounding angry and sad, hopeful and hopeless,_

 _The_ _Сол_ д _а_ т _held their tongue, wary._

They _didn’t recognize the voice, couldn’t_ place _it among the scraps of memory they guarded in the deepest recesses of their mind. They didn’t deny that it_ was _familiar, but it didn’t sound quite_ right _. Like it was a mimicry of another’s voice. Calling out in a language they’d never heard – a language that wasn’t_ human – _speaking a_ Name. _It resonated with_ him _, but it wasn’t_ their _Name_ , so the _Сол_ д _а_ т _would not respond to it._

~

“Captain Rogers”

Steve paused where he was scrolling through the paperwork Pepper needed to certify him as capable of being a bodyguard, to look up at where JARVIS’ voice was coming from now. He was alone right now, not for the first time since the AI had implied that he knew who he was, but Steve _had_ taken advantage of the fact that the AI didn’t seem inclined to reveal him to all and sundry by not letting himself be alone much or long the last couple of weeks.

Now he was, and though he didn’t answer JARVIS seemed to know he was listening anyway, “Is there a reason why you haven’t corrected the assumption that you are not the Steve Rogers born in 1919, who’d served in World War Two, and disappeared in 1945?”

He put aside his tablet for the moment, “Who’d even believe we were the same person? I went into the ice sixty-three years ago, I should be, by all rights, _dead_.”

“But you are undeniably not dead, Captain Rogers. Facial recognition alone presents you as a 99.999% match. Even if that is discredited as coincidence, your body still contains Dr. Erskine’s serum. Your vitals reveal it’s presence from your increased body temperature and metabolic rate, or some simple tests would reveal your peak physical abilities as a result of it at work, if you did not submit to a simple blood test.”

Steve smiled faintly, because it technically wouldn’t be hard to claim he was the Captain America the world had known from sixty-some years ago, or even to prove to it if he allowed some _testing_ , but it wasn’t so simple. Proving he was _the_ Steve Rogers – the one who’d gone into the ice while wearing the mantle of Captain America – would mean taking the mantle back up.

He’d never stop trying to be the _good man_ Dr. Erskine had asked him to be with the serum, but being _Captain_ _America_ came with more burdens than it had even during a world war now. Burdens he didn’t all know, and most of which he didn’t _want_ but didn’t know how to divorce himself from yet. He wouldn’t hesitate to take the mantle up if it was _needed_ , but the world had _changed_.

He didn’t know if the world _needed_ Captain America.

“I was found in the ice, but my survival has been decidedly kept _secret_. _Captain America_ remains on ice, _kept_ dead because I’m _not_ the man the world knows. Or at least, _thinks_ it knows. It has decided it doesn’t need _me._ ”

He didn’t know if the world _wanted_ Captain America.

(So, didn’t he deserve to be _just_ Steve Rogers for a while again? To live the life that he would have if he’d just been born healthy? If he’d come home from the war? Even if it _was_ just for a little while. He wasn’t fool enough to think that there _wouldn’t_ come a day that _wanted_ or not, there might be something that he could only do as _Captain America_ ; that he’d move Heaven and Earth for and becoming Captain America again would be a _small_ price to play.)

“I never wanted that mantle; all I wanted was to get overseas and do my part, stand by my fella and see him home safe. I’d rather be _Steve Rogers_ now that the war is over.”

JARVIS didn’t have anything to say to that, but Steve didn’t expect him to.

“If you could, just keep calling me Mister Rogers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #Steve doesn’t get that reference #The Grinch Stole Christmas came out in 1957


	33. that can be a dream or a nightmare;

Tony greeted him a shit-eating grin a morning a few days after the conversation with JARVIS, bright and early – barely six o’clock – a cup of coffee in hand, “ _Mister Rogers_?”

Steve took the coffee without a word, and started to make a b-line for the stairs just shy of a run.

Tony followed him at a jog, “Won’t you be my neighbor, Steve? In- _in the neighborhood of make-believe!_ ”

He tried to follow him up over thirty-six flights of stairs despite starting to pant after the ninth floor – “Isn’t this- isn’t this, such, a _good_ feeling?” – and practically dragging himself up by the twelfth floor. Steve might have taken pity on him, and pushed him at the elevator on the fifteenth floor. Only partially because he actually _enjoyed_ the work-out the stairs gave him, which despite Tony’s mockery _was_ a good feeling, but Tony had been two steps away from just dropping on the ground and refusing to get up ‘because his legs are jelly!’.

(He’d already been witness to one of JARVIS’ enforced exercise days where he locked Tony out of his computers for a few hours, for his health. Tony had stepped off his treadmill, took two steps, and then starfish-ed on the ground, refusing to get up unless moved. Pepper had told him to leave him there for the day after leaving a small pile of snacks and a couple of water bottles next to him. By the end of the day, he really hadn’t moved more than a foot from that very spot.

Probably half out of spite, half because he’d tried to get up to go the bathroom in a rush, and stumbled, fell, and then decided the bathroom could wait. Steve had taken pity on him and helped him to a wall before he’d left for the day.)

JARVIS spoke up once Tony was on the elevator, “I apologize, Mister Rogers. I realized too late what Sir’s reaction would be upon me addressing you as ‘Mister Rogers’, now that he doesn’t dislike you so much for being a constant reminder of Captain America to him.”

Steve sighed, “It’s- it’s not your fault. I imagine Tony is _never_ going to drop this, so I can’t say it _won’t_ possibly become a problem, but Tony will be Tony. He wouldn’t be Tony if he didn’t take advantage of such a ready-made nickname.”

He started jogging properly up the stairs after a moment, “What _is_ Tony’s problem with me?”

“After you disappeared, his father spent considerable effort, time, and money into trying to find you and Sergeant Barnes. Mister Stark had Sir rather late in life, and a lot of his early life was overshadowed by Howard’s search for you. Particularly since he never stopped searching, and it became a point of contention between them.”

He’d gone up a couple of flights before JARVIS continued, “I believe Sir used the phrase ‘emotional affair’ in regards to how devoted Mister Stark was in searching for you. He thought Mister Stark was all but cheating on his mother, and he adored her while hating his father for not giving her the love he thought he should have, that she deserved.”

Steve stumbled, tripped up a couple of steps, “Wait, what??”

“Would you like me to repeat myself, Mister Rogers?”

He did not get up right away, slowly standing, mind whirling as he tried to process _that_ , “No, it’s not necessary. I heard you, but I’m just having a hard time processing that.”

(A _massive_ understatement. The _sainted mother_ of all understatements, really.)

He climbed a flight or two in a daze, trying to work his mind around the idea, but he was having problems with it. Admittedly, Howard might have had a _thing_ for him big, but he’d always been more interested in _Peggy_.

(Bucky had even joked once that she was practically Howard’s _the one that got away_ from the moment Peggy had declined to date him and yet became one of his closest friends. Howard hadn’t denied it.)

Steve didn’t know all the details here, and he felt like there were details Tony had never learned that explained why Howard had tried so hard to find him – Ana and Evie had probably paid a part; Becca had told him how both were working for him following the war – but honestly, it sounded like Howard had felt _guilty_ for his part in the legend of Captain America.

(Howard had been there at the beginning, had helped Dr. Erskine make him _more_ , and had given him the chance to be more than a dancing monkey playing it safe. He’d given him his shield, and had made a lot of the equipment the Howling Commandos had used.

Maybe it hadn’t been directly, but _indirectly_ \- Howard had probably felt guilty over his and Bucky’s supposed deaths. Finding them and bringing them home would have been his penance.)

There was a _lot_ to unpack, and honestly, Steve didn’t _want_ to touch that with a ten-foot pole. _Ever_ , if he could.

Howard had been at best, a _friend_. He’d never thought about it and he would have happily died never thinking about Howard like that. He’d never thought about _anyone_ other than Bucky and Peggy, never even for a moment contemplated finding someone else.

(He _remembered_ Peggy’s response to a woman kissing him _before_ they mostly-somewhat got together. She’d _shot at him_ , and _multiple times_ at that. If the shield Howard had given him had been any _less_ amazing, he might have _died._

He _remembered_ Bucky’s response too. Bucky had tried to kiss him _stupid_ , to get rid of any trace of the other woman, and then the woman had been shortly after transferred. Steve never knew where and he knew better than to ask.)

He’d been _lucky_ that he hadn’t _lost_ Bucky for Peggy, and that Peggy had seemed to _understand_ how important Bucky was to him even without them ever really defining what he and Bucky _were_ other than _important_. If his gaze had wandered, it wouldn’t have ended well on _any_ front and he’d be worse off than he was now.

(At least now, if either – or both, hopefully _both_ – were alive, it’d be a happy reunion. They’d only been separated by forces beyond their control, and they could have _something_ again, even if not the same.

If he had messed up what they’d had, even _if_ both were alive, they might barely remain friends, and only out of virtue of being glad that they were all alive. He _might_ have been able to be friends again with Bucky, considering the serum and the Barnes’ long life-span, but he would have had to _work_ for it; Bucky held _grudges_. Peggy on the other hand might have been willing to put it behind them, eventually, but he had a snowball’s chance in hell in getting her to forgive him before time caught up to her.)

Instead, on his way up, he paused on the thirty-second floor to look up ‘Mister Rogers’ on his phone, and slowly continued up while he watched part of an episode because he could already tell, Tony was going to have a little _too_ much fun with this new nickname.

(Tony had already gleefully cycled through every variant of ‘short’ he could think of. Luckily, they’d mostly stopped once he’d settled on ‘Pint-Sized Fury’.)

The moment he opened the door of the thirty-sixth floor, “Won’t you be my neighbor?” began to play.

Tony was lounging on a chair, feet thrown off one side of the arms as he grinned and sang intentionally off-key with the opening song of a children’s show that he’d already made a note to watch the entirety – all thirty-one seasons and all nine hundred and twelve episodes – of because he _heartily_ approved of its message.

“Forget being the patriotic bundle of honor, justice, and everything _right_ , you’re _definitely_ a more violent, not so gentle Mister Rogers. _Please_ tell me Mr. McFeely delivered your mail as a kid.”

Steve shrugged, and Tony almost fell out of his chair in his scramble to right himself, “ _Seriously?_ ”

He walked right past him into Pepper’s office, “Nope.”

Steve laughed as Tony loudly called through the door, “Oh, you _asshole_. You were fucking with me!”

Pepper blinked at him, then covered her face with a hand, “If you have slept with Tony, _never tell me_ and _never repeat it_. He’s your boss, and _technically_ can coerce you into sleeping with him even if he never will – he has even directly _told_ HR that he thinks _consent is sexy, he’s offended that anyone would think that he would_ _ever make anyone think they_ had _to!_ – and we’d have to quietly fire you because we couldn’t trust your priorities. I’d rather not let you go if I could; you’re actually _good_ at your job. It makes _mine_ so much easier.”

Steve couldn’t help it, he snorted at her imitation of Tony, even if he quickly sobered at the eye that peeked through her fingers, “I’m serious. It’d be hard to replace you, and I don’t really want to go through the interview, probation, and termination cycle _again_. I’ve actually managed a full _seven_ hours of sleep _four_ days this week. Tony has cooperated nearly _sixty_ percent more than he did before you were hired, and it’s been only been almost a _month._ ”

First it was the idea that he’d been having an affair with Howard, now it was the idea that he’d slept with Tony. Did he just seem to be the human equivalent of cat-nip to Starks??

(Seriously??)

As such, he felt the need to explain _why it was never happening_ , “You got _nothing_ to worry about there, Pepper. Not interested in the _slightest_. Only ever been _interested_ in two people.”

Steve had loved Bucky practically from the _day_ he’d met him, as he had Peggy, really. From their first punch, if he was honest. Like Peggy had said, he had a _type_.

(Sometimes, when he dreamed now, he wondered if they _could_ have become like the elder Barnes’ second wife and their paramour. Happy with three people because there was enough love to go around, enough space in their hearts to share.

He’d used to think they _would_ have, if they’d come _home_ from the war. He would have happily lived in a house with Peggy and Bucky, like they’d talked about sometimes. Peggy with her massive library, and filling a whole wall with science fiction. Bucky cooking his Ma’s food, and stocking their kitchen with tea and coffee. An art studio for him, where he’d draw them both, smiling, laughing, together and separate.

He _missed_ them.)

Steve pulled up his sleeve to show the bracelet of coins and coke bottle lids, because he’d _never_ been ashamed of Bucky, and _now_ he _could show the world how they’d loved_ ; he _wanted_ to, “My fella, his grandmother was Roma. This is good as a wedding ring on my finger to them. Admittedly, it’d normally be a full necklace but he didn’t get a chance to finish before he was declared MIA and I collected his things once he’d been considered KIA.” – then Bucky’s dog tags from under his shirt to show off the candy ring – “He gave me this when we were kids at a cousin’s bar mitzvah, then his _other_ grandmother had me promise to make an honest man out of him. She left things in her will for us for a wedding, and her rabbi would have officiated unofficially if the war had brought us home.”

Then he reached into his pocket for his compass, the one where he’d cut Peggy’s photo out of a newspaper and stuck inside like it was a locket, but didn’t open it, “We’ve spent most of our lives thinking we’d never get to be more than best friends despite all these promises between us; never get to be _together_ , properly. We should have fallen to pieces when I met my best girl, but we were stronger for her inclusion. During our worst days, we dreamed of a life with all three of us, but Buck- he didn’t come home one day and I fell apart. I was alive but I wasn’t living, and I couldn’t believe her when she said that it wasn’t my fault. Still can’t. Then I left, and she moved on with her life.”

He _missed_ Bucky, like his best friend was a missing limb, the ache constant and never forgotten, but he missed _Peggy_ too. If Bucky was alive, they’d have years – maybe even decades – to _be_ , but Peggy was only _human_. If she was alive – and he still believed that she was, while Becca tried to track down what had happened with her since Evie’s funeral in May 1992 – she wouldn’t have too many years left.

(Maybe they’d never have that little house with their library, kitchen, and artist studio, but he would have promised her a lifetime together. He’d be there for her in the end if he could, if she’d let him back into her life.)

Pepper reached out to catch his hands, to hold them between her hands, and didn’t say anything for a long while. Her voice was soft, weary, when she did, “Love isn’t easy, but it makes life worth living, doesn’t it? I wouldn’t trade the man I love for the world, no matter the pain that comes with him.”

Steve smiled faintly, agreeing, “Yes.”

Loving Bucky – loving Peggy – would always be worth it.

~

The moment it had become October, Stark Industries started to celebrate Halloween.

Or more accurately, _Tony_ did, and he dragged the company with him as hallway lights tinted orange, purple, and black, spiderwebs were nestled in every corner, small pumpkins sat on each desk, and the elevator played ‘classic’ themed music. Employees were allowed – _encouraged –_ to dress up in costumes as long as they wore no face masks, and gore was kept to a limited level if they might cross paths with children. The areas where children could come to – and did, since Tony encouraged his month-long holiday by having people bring their children to work – had bowls of candy available for a ‘trick-or-treat’.

Tony pouted a little every time he saw Pepper dressed like normal, her only concession to the holiday cheer being that her white dress-suit was actually quietly patterned with a spider web and her earrings were spiders, or she’d come in all orange.

He always smiled when some other employees dressed up as sexy monsters, hardly wearing anything.

Happy would sometimes wear a line of scars around his neck and wrists that would tauntingly peek out from behind his suit. Tony had tried to call him Frankenstein, and Steve had interrupted that technically he was _Frankenstein’s monster_.

(Bucky had read to him the book while he’d been sick after he’d found an old copy in a thrift shop.)

JARVIS was playing black-and-white monster movies all day long in the background.

Every visitor to Tony’s floor was expected to say ‘trick-or-treat’, and if Tony didn’t hand over a candy bar, to trick him sometime later in the day. Steve had watched as a janitor had cackled as he’d taken away the toilet paper when Tony had run out of candy when he’d come around to help clean up an oil mess earlier.

Steve was mildly confused at the incredible _difference_ between what was considered Halloween _now_ and what _he’d_ known Halloween as.

He’d wrapped an iron wire around his wrist, carried salt in his pockets and kept his gaze from the shadows. Halloween was Samhain, the night where the veil between worlds was thinnest. Monsters walked among men in the darkest hours of the night, and pumpkins were carved to distract _d_ _úlach_ _án_.

(Which had reminded him that he’d needed to leave milk and grain ready by sunset for Crom Dubh as thanks on the day, as he’d woken up on his day: the first Sunday of August.)

The last Samhain he’d experienced, the unjustly dead had trembled in their shallow graves, rising for the night to get revenge for their deaths as they fell beneath the Grim’s shadow. The Grim was currently Hunting, so it _might_ be fine, but Steve was a _little_ concerned.

(He’d definitely mention it to Becca, just so she was warned if Halloween night got a little _crazy_.

No one had seen _crazy_ until they’d seen an undead Nazi kid coming after a Hydra soldier, bloody and covered in his own gore.)

Maybe _more_ than a little concerned, if he was honest, but from what Bucky had gathered before the Howling Commandos had collectively swore off ever mentioning Halloween 1944 _ever_ again, was that the Grim could only rise those who’d been killed unjustly and held a grudge for their deaths, that were within five-mile circumference of the Grimm. It _should_ be fine unless the Grim wandered near an unmarked mass grave, but even then, they’d be targeting those at fault for their deaths. They hadn’t previously shown any interest in anyone else, to the point where they’d walk right up to and around people without doing more than noticing there was something in their way.

(Dum-Dum had emptied his shotgun frantically into some, and they hadn’t even spared him a glance for it. Not even Jaq lobbing grenades into their midst had gotten more or a response other than picking themselves up if they could, and crawling forward where they couldn’t.

The hand crawling on its own over his foot had had Jim kicking it violently into the distance after he’d been startled half into a heart attack, and it had just kept going forward.

James had half-molded into Bucky’s back because the undead had given _him_ a _significant_ breadth of space to avoid coming _anywhere_ near him.)

It’d just be _traumatic_ for anyone that saw them, because they’d be in various stages of decomposition and they would take down those at fault viciously, with most often, bloodily.

(Jaq had sworn off going to a cemetery ever again; He’d swore that even when – not if – he outlived them all – aside from Bucky, he’d always been very firm on the idea that Bucky would see the _end_ _of_ _the_ _world_ before _he_ would die – he’d go to their funerals but he’d never visit their graves after, following that Samhain. Only saying that there weren’t enough explosives in all the world to tempt him to go _anywhere_ where dead bodies laid in wait for Samhain.)

Even disregarding the extra horror of the undead, from what he was gathering thanks to Tony’s _enthusiasm_ for the holiday, was that it was much more light-hearted nowadays. More about candy and costumes than remaining unnoticed by those that walked among them wearing their true skins, less a warning and more a festival.

Tony was having a party on the 31st.

The number of people who could come that weren’t _exactly_ who they said, would be minimal – supposedly _non_ - _existent_ , but _he_ had snuck in with false credentials, disregarding the fact that JARVIS knew who he really was because apparently he was _world-famous_ and was choosing to not tell Tony – but May had never been able to capture the Grim on camera while most hadn’t been _able_ to see him except when the _Grim_ wanted or death was coming for them – so it should _theoretically_ be fine, just like _theoretically_ , the fact the Grim was _elsewhere_ meant the dead _wouldn’t_ be raising up in New York City.

Maybe. _Hopefully_. It hadn’t exactly been _tested_ whether or not the fact the Grim rode along in his shadow had had an _effect_. Not even to say anything about what some sixty-four years with it in his shoulder had _done_ ; whether _he_ could cause the same sort of effect independent of the Grim.

So, Steve was going to go to somewhere the population was too small for the population to turn out more than a couple of unjust dead to rise. He’d just have to look for a place that isolated, but up north was probably the easiest to find on such short notice.

After he’d told Becca about the possibility that he might raise the undead on Halloween, and wanting to go somewhere rather isolated for the duration, her response had rather laid-back. She hadn’t even blinked twice when he’d told her about Samhain 1944.

“Undead is more of an umbrella term. Specifically, you could rise _zombies_ , Steve.”

Almost like she’d heard similar before.

Alexei on the other hand, had dropped his glass, not even reacting when it hit the ground, shattered, and splashed water all up his leg. He’d lost a lot of color, too. His wife had helped sit him down in his chair when he’d looked about to pass out at the whole concept of _actual undead_ , not whatever the elder Barnes technically was, while his daughter started cleaning up the glass.

The woman, her long ink black hair coiled in a braid hanging down her embroidery-covered back aside from the sharp cut chin-length bangs, turned unseeing cloudy grey almond-shaped eyes in his general direction, yet still almost unerringly meeting his eyes if a little higher than his eye level, “Do they not deserve the chance to have the justice that was denied to them for one reason or another?”

Her gaze was intense until she returned some attention to her husband when he patted at her arm faintly, but he seemed to be having problems finding words. Sonia spoke up in her father’s stead as she leaned back in her chair, and looked over at a Barnes family photo from when Alexei had been a baby, “It’s the possible collateral damage you’re worried about, isn’t it? Just because they didn’t do anything _before_ doesn’t mean they _won’t_. Not to mention _Great-Uncle_ was there. They were _afraid_ of him.”

She gestured at the photo, “They are _terrified_ ” – specifically to where the elder Barnes was in it, looking the same as ever – “of _him_ , according to what Vlad said when the Lord of the Night pulled him out of Vukovar.”

She continued even as Steve went wide-eyed at the news that the Grim had raised the dead while he’d been in the ice, “He was probably the _only_ reason why _anyone_ survived in the city some fifteen, almost twenty, years ago? It was just shy of a year after the city fell, when he was chasing a lead for Grandma about the rumors of a man with golden eyes having been spotted in Croatia during the eight-seven-day siege.” – before wincing as she looked over at where her father appeared about to outright faint – “I forgot you missed that, Dad, you were in Boston, and Vlad _refuses_ to talk about that night more than he did then, so we never really brought it up afterwards. Its why he always come over for Halloween, and only goes to funerals with Grandmother, no matter how close he was to them.”

Her mother looked _fascinated_ though, “From what I remember of his panicked call to Grandma, and when telling us what had happened after, he said the city was rising up again, thousands of partially decomposed bodies marching into the city from where the city’s defenders had been hastily buried in shallow graves.” – seeming to slowly realize the true depths of why Steve was hesitant to hang around _anywhere_ there _might_ be unjustly-killed vengeful dead as Sonia finished – “They would have taken back the city by sunrise if not for _him_ , and killing _anyone_ and _everyone_ they blamed for their deaths amounting to nothing, for losing the city, for taking the city. Vlad said the streets were running red with blood and gore was everywhere, as they’d killed pretty much whoever they came across.”

 _Steve_ felt like _he_ was going to faint now, because _Jesus_. That, was a _lot_ like his _worst_ imaginings of what Halloween could be like, because a _lot_ of people had died in New York City. An unjust death wasn’t exactly the most defined descriptor for those affected by the Grim, just _barely_ narrowed down from a pointless, senseless death to an _intentional_ – or _knowingly_ ; Steve and Bucky hadn’t quite figured out which one it was since the battlefield hadn’t been quite the place to figure out that one, and one incident hadn’t definitely leaned one way or another _–_ pointless, senseless, but _any_ death during war muddied the waters of any hope of defining that down further.

Nearly _any_ death during a war could be called an unjust death.

The only saving grace there was that not _all_ unjust dead would rise, if they felt no need for vengeance or justice had been done in their name. As he’d seen when they had risen up against Hydra in 1944; as not _all_ bodies, independent of their affiliation, _would_ rise.

(After almost a year of actively being shadowed by the Grim – because he wasn’t counting those years in the ice if the Grim had been out raising the dead – Steve had reached the conclusion that there were _degrees_ of unjust deaths, and the Grim only came personally to avenge those that were committed by those without a hope of redemption – or the Grim just _really_ hated Hydra.

Steve, admittedly, hadn’t quite figured out _which_ it was since every person the Grim had devoured the soul of while near him _had_ been _Hydra_ , but not _all_ Hydra, just _most_.)

Steve started to pace, because there had been more than one battle that had happened on the city’s doorstep so even if its many non-accidental – intentional or knowingly – deaths were disregarded, that was still a _lot_ of potential undead that could rise. Staying in New York City was _beyond_ risking now, and to be safe, he’d _need_ to go to the nearest location where there wasn’t a nearby battlefield, unlikely to be some sort of gravesite, and had a general dearth of population.

Northern Canada was looking to be the best option for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #this was just supposed to be Tony cracking Mister Rogers jokes #I swear #the whole ‘Tony’s issues with Captain America’ was supposed to be unstated for a WHILE #and then Tony cracked a joke and Pepper had to be sure it wasn’t a joke #since Tony has a reputation for sleeping with anyone #Steve is just so proud of Bucky and Peggy that he really does take every opportunity to bring them up  
> #Halloween  
> #at first it was just going to be a culture piece #then I remembered #Magical Realism #which is a #legitimate reason to suggest zombies are real #I’ve already introduced the whole ‘there is truth in every legend’ because #Magic is Real #then I was joking with my sister about him going to Canada #because go far enough north and there wouldn’t be too many shallow graves of vengeful dead for him to stumble upon #and my sister was commenting that Steve could fit in the trunk to hide out from Border Control #and Becca would be ‘not my first rodeo’ to a body in the trunk #but then twenty minutes into my shift a couple of hours later I was like #DO yOu kNOw whO LiVEs iN CaNAdA 
> 
> #so . . . #STEVE’S GOING TO CANADA


	34. but in the end is just more sweet-smelling smoke and fun-house mirrors.

Steve had been at Stark Industries for a month and a half before the fact that the company was – and had been since his war – a military contractor to the government properly come up. It’d been brought up prior, in part because Tony typically worked on things explicitly for the military in the evening once he typically went home, and when Tony was, he was _supposed_ to already be gone since he didn’t actually have the clearance to know anything.

The first time Tony had forgotten that, Pepper had lectured Tony over security risks before having him sign a bunch of non-disclosure agreements because it’d only been a glimpse, but he’d seen schematics for some sort of metal wings. It wouldn’t have been a problem for anyone else, and Pepper would just be covering their bases, but Steve’s memory was something else thanks to the serum.

Tony still forgot sometimes, since he’d leap from project to project sometimes, disregarding if it was something _he_ should be seeing, so caught up in it all that he forgot _he_ was _there_. Pepper had sighed while he’d gone through a whole stack of papers promising to not talk about anything he’d seen in Stark’s lab – the extended version after he made a comment about the stress limit of steel in cold temperatures and it sent Tony rapid-fire working on protecting the metal wings’ wiring in high altitudes, giving him more than a quick glimpse as he muttered aloud his thought process.

Pepper had warned him that their military liaison was coming in part because of the fact that he _didn’t_ have clearance, and to assess how much of a security risk he was for it, as much as it was to check on the progress for a specific military project. Then she sent him off with coffee to meet Colonel Rhodes in the lobby to bring them up so they could talk a little on the way up without Tony butting in.

First impression, Colonel Rhodes reminded him a little of Colonel Phillips, with the air of being career military. Except Air Force instead of Infantry, and if he was a younger, black man who’d yet to develop a minor dependence on alcohol to get him through the shit he was seeing in the course of his career.

(Since he'd been dealing with Schmidt and Hydra – and _him_ – more specifically.)

A part of Steve expected to be called to attention, and he straightened up.

(All these years later, and Colonel Phillips _still_ had him trained to respond to him a little like he’d learned in Camp Lehigh. He just hadn’t taken to it completely, and his time on the circuit _really_ hadn’t helped him there; it hadn’t been _habit_ to salute his superiors.

Colonel Phillips had had _so many_ chances to get him on insubordination for it; even if he had steadfastly ignored _everything_ involved with Azzano and _most_ of his missions in the months after where he’d gone against orders in some manner or another.)

Colonel Rhodes glanced at him as he took the coffee, “At ease. Are you . . Steve Rogers?” His face did a little twitch over his name, like he wasn’t sure how he felt about saying it, or that it felt _weird_. That even going in knowing that _was_ his name hadn’t made it _any_ less weird to say, when the world associated _Steve Rogers_ with and as, _Captain America_ , and Captain America was still in the ice.

“Yes.” But he _was_ Steve Rogers, otherwise known as Captain America.

He got a side-eye as the taller man took a sip of coffee then started walking to the elevator, “You serve, Rogers?”

Becca hadn’t put any sort of military service on his new identity, because the military was too-close knit for them to fake it. It would be too easy to slip up and reveal that he had a fake identity. It wouldn’t have held up to Stark Industries’ investigations, and as Steve had put aside the Captain America mantle, he’d put aside his military service.

He was proud of serving, of doing his part in stopping Hydra, but it wasn’t a point of _pride_. He’d been a lab experiment, and military property; the military hadn’t wanted him when he’d been willing, hadn’t wanted him out there when he’d been able. He wouldn’t readily introduce himself _as_ military without prompting, because in the end, it had been more of a _means_ to an end, and he hadn’t really thought of it as a _defining_ point of who he was.

He wouldn’t deny it though.

“Mostly in Italy and France. Infantry.”

“What unit?

“The 107th, specifically with Ghost Company.”

Colonel Rhodes choked on his coffee, “Seriously?” – coughing to clear his throat – “They’re _legends_. In times of peace, they’re mostly an honor guard, a symbol of international cooperation in spirit of the Howling Commandos since the ‘50’s. They’ve turned the tide of wars. Their presence has always meant whatever or whoever they’re there for is top priority to the US.”

He looked at him, clearly wanting to ask _why_ he’d been in Italy and France, but seemed to be assuming that whatever it was, he didn’t have clearance for it. Steve would take advantage of that, and give him just _enough_ of an idea of his military history that he wouldn’t feel inclined to search too deep, staying vague to let him make assumptions over the details, “I joined after the attack on American soil, wanting to do my part, but wasn’t able to right away since while I had the heart and the will, my body wasn’t quite up to it. I was honorably discharged after a mission went wrong. I got out a couple of months ago.”

The elevator ride was quiet as he seemed to be processing that, then before Colonel Rhodes stepped off, “I’m glad that your story hasn’t become a tragedy like your namesake.”

He grinned with teeth, “A happy ending is all in where you end it. My story isn’t over yet. I’ll _get_ my happy ending, with my own damn hands if I must.”

Colonel Rhodes laughed quietly, “I hope you get it.”

Steve watched him walk over towards where Tony was waiting, before making back towards Pepper’s office, “Rhodney! Buddy! Have I got a show for you!”

JARVIS spoke up once he was beyond their hearing, quiet like he had been when asking about his military service before, voice too quiet for anyone else to understand, “I adjusted your company record to reflect your military service. You joined in late 2005, and were discharged a couple of months before your interview with Miss Potts. I have not created false government records as that is illegal, but as you have served, I will spoof your file to reflect what you have implied if anyone goes looking for Steve Rogers circa 1982.”

“Thanks JARVIS.”

“It was no problem, Mister Rogers.”

~

_It kept calling, and never stopped._

_It called and called and_ called _._

~

Tony tried every which way to get him to come to his Halloween party, blatantly and outright hoping that he showed up dressed as Captain America.

A part of him was tempted to come in one day in the suit – Becca would gleefully find him a replica – because there _was_ a certain amount of irony of _him_ wearing it as a costume, but he had his reasons to not. One of which _wasn’t_ that Tony seemed to be on the verge of realizing that there was no such thing as _coincidence_ , and that he was at least partially, willfully, ignoring the idea because of his _issues_ with _Captain America_.

(Steve wasn’t quite sure if _Pepper_ had figured him out, but sometimes he thought she had a suspicion or two. At least, he thought if he told her, she’d not outright dismiss him, and might even _believe_ him.)

If Tony figured it out, it’d make things so much easier but he’d take advantage of SHIELD keeping his survival quiet to see what he could rout out going at the problem sideways.

(Bucky would be _proud_ ; he wasn’t going face-first and through the front door, for _once_. It had _nothing_ to do with the fact Bucky wasn’t there to watch his back, and with Bucky _absent_ , he couldn’t afford to be too reckless.)

As a concession to the fact that he was going to be gone for the actual holiday, Steve wore a lovely red sweater cardigan like Mister Rogers’ to be in the spirit on the 29th.

Even if he _was_ tempted to stay – what with Tony waxing lyrical over what would take place and he’d like to see what sort of festival the holiday had turned into – Sonia’s story of Vukovar had left him with _zero_ inclination to tempt whether or not he was a possible source of rising the undead. He’d requested to be gone the day before Halloween, Halloween, and the day after, just to be able to get as _far_ into the Canadian wilderness as possible before Samhain started with the setting sun.

(His mother had celebrated it as three days and three nights, like her family had for centuries, but the dead had only risen with the setting sun of the fall equinox, and rested again at first light on his last Samhain. Technically, he’d be fine for the 30th, but Steve didn’t want to take any risks, and was going to make himself scarce for as much of those three days and nights as he could.)

Pepper had put his request for the days off down as for religious reasons – which, it was, somewhat, but not the way he would celebrate Easter – because while he and HR were in the middle of a _disagreement_ over whether the appropriate response to harassment was to get in the fucker’s face and offer to take it out back, _they_ weren’t the ones sniffing around over what _exactly_ could get him fired. Someone else _was_ though, and she didn’t want to leave his bases uncovered.

She’d been quick to reassure him it was just because he was the first person in a _while_ – the tired look on her face said it’d been _years_ , but she didn’t want to think about that – that had stayed on for over a month, and that there was just a certain amount of understandable anxiety in that. They’d both known it was lie as she said it, but Steve hadn’t called her out on it because hearing her _say_ someone wanted him fired wouldn’t mean that he could do anything about it if they were looking for the smallest infraction as leverage to do so.

He’d already looked over his contract once he’d started to visit HR to see if they could _actually_ fire him as long as he didn’t cause any incidents. Technically, they _could_ get him fired for just getting involved if they were looking for _any_ reason, but then he could sue them on unlawful termination according to Becca. They wouldn’t _try_ to unless he started to shine a light blindly in the dark and got rewarded with a reflection, but even then, he didn’t actually _need_ the job now that he’d met Tony and could get involved.

He wasn’t a stranger anymore; he was someone that _knew_ Tony, and was at least marginally trusted by the people that would try to keep him out of it. If something happened, he had the _right_ to know about it.

(If worst came to worst though, it wasn’t like he _had_ to _be_ there. It’d just be easier to interfere.)

If Tony was kidnapped and _he_ was elsewhere, he could just take his shield back and go Hunting. As long as Happy survived, the other man could give him a starting point and Steve had worked off less before when _motivated_ , but if Happy wasn’t _there_ , then it would be because he’d been held back about his _military_ _clearance_ and then they were talking about _treason_ to know details of where and when Tony would be to show off soon-to-be military technology.

(With his _return_ , it’d warn whoever had Bucky that Azzano _hadn’t_ been a one-off; he’d come Hunting for _them_ soon. They’d make a mistake and reveal themselves trying to get rid of him or move Bucky, and Becca would be waiting to catch them for it.)

And if it was _treason_ , then there would be a whole new _chapter_ in the Captain America mythos that he could exploit for the rightful return of his shield and some carte blanche over his actions because Bucky was a _prisoner of war_. Which, if it _was_ Hydra that had him, _God help them_ then, because then Steve would remind them that _war had been declared_ and what that _meant_.

Right now, though, he was just looking for anything that could connect back to Stane that could cast him in any sort of questionable light, but it wouldn’t be easy to find.

He’d be frustrated over his minimal progress but he was fairly certain that he had _time_. Tony was, for the most part, cooperating with what Stane wanted for the company after all. _For the most part_ was the key phrase though, because Tony didn’t focus exclusively on weapons or military contracts, segueing sometimes into advanced robots and household appliances – and cellphones. When he wasn’t fiddling with JARVIS’ code as a distraction while trying to work his way around a problem in one of his projects, he was messing around with phones.

(The phones were something of a one-man crusade for Tony. From what he’d worked out, it was partly out of nostalgia because Evie had been rather single-minded about creating portable hand-held phones, and once she _had_ , on improving them. When he’d been small, she’d made it a bit of a game between them, breaking down a competitor’s cellphone and making it _better_ , and they’d been working on making it a projecting holo-screen. Tony was a _little_ obsessed on figuring how to make it portable and hand-held.)

Tony took the _improving cellphones_ – really, _improving all technology_ – to ridiculous heights.

Steve couldn’t _prove_ it but he _swore_ that he’d seen a reporter bring out a flip-phone to an interview, Tony glare at it all personally offended, and by the end of the interview, the reporter had been holding a significantly more advanced cell phone without right away realizing it. Steve had _actually seen_ the moment where the reporter had looked down at his phone to end the recording, and blink uncomprehendingly at it for a few moments.

(He’d told Becca about it, and before he knew it, M had gotten ‘Hashtag Tony Stark’s Mere Presence Upgrades Technology’ trending. Tony had found it hysterical, and Pepper had told him that HR was running with it because it was _significantly_ better press than the last time Tony had gotten drunk in public.

Steve was a _little_ terrified at M’s technological prowess. With a few keystrokes she could probably ruin somebody’s whole _life_. Bucky would one hundred and ten percent approve of her.)

~

When he got off, Becca was waiting on the curb in a car. Steve knew nothing about cars, but he immediately thought Bucky would _love_ it.

(He’d probably call it something like Jackson. Or Martha. Probably Martha; Bucky had a _slight_ tendency to call his vehicles by a m-name considering Martin, Max, and Mark.)

She leaned over the passenger side, with a smirk and a hand-flourish, “Well, here I am. What are your other two wishes?”

Steve chuckled as he popped the door, sliding in, keeping his tone light despite how serious he was, “My own license, and a motorcycle.” He wasn’t looking forward to a New York winter; the idea of riding a train in the snow _wasn’t_ something he wanted to experience again.

She pulled into the street before answering, “Would you rather go in and get your own license or have me you get one? The DMV is its own special circle of hell, and it will probably be at least a month before you can get in for the driving test, and it’s _maybe_ a week for the written test.”

“No rush.” Unless it started snowing early this year, then _yesterday_.

She side-eyed him without turning her gaze from the road as she moved through the afternoon traffic towards the highway, voice drier than a desert, “I told you that you don’t _have_ to ride the train.”

( _“I can do this on my own._

 _“I know. But you don’t_ have _to.”_ )

Steve jerked his head to the side to escape her gaze with the echo of Bucky saying similar, hardly hearing Becca continue, “I’m retired, I have a lot of free time that I can use some of which to drop you off and pick you up. Or I can give you the money for a taxi if you’d prefer that.”

He watched the cars passing them by, “I can ride the train, it’s not a problem.”

Becca went west, heading out of the city before she responded, “It _is_ when you break out in a cold sweat at one passing by overhead. You flinch whenever one goes screeching by within your hearing. The one time we went together by train, you couldn’t look out the windows and had your music cranked up so loud in your ears that it was audible five feet away.”

Steve didn’t argue it further, but he didn’t intend to avoid trains forever. It’d just be for the winter, once the snow had all melted, he’d go back to riding the train. Once it wouldn’t be a glaring reminder of that last mission with Bucky.

She sighed softly, a quiet exasperated noise that said she knew he wasn’t admitting defeat, just a stalemate, “According to M, the farthest we can get going northwest is to the Laughlin Lake area in Alberta in forty-eight hours if we drive practically straight through. The population around there is minimal, primarily seasonal or passing through, and this is off-season which is the ideal.”

His brows raised to his hairline, “You can’t drive that distance.”

She grinned with teeth, “Once I’m out of the more populated areas, I’m going to pull over and see how much you remember about driving. Bucky told me he gave you a crash-course in France.”

Steve groaned, remembering the nightmare of one of the Howling Commandos’ first missions after Azzano. It had ended with them fleeing the kicked hornet’s nest in a stolen truck when predicted numbers for the base had been _way_ off and instead of a single barracks, it’d been a legion. Gabe had been trying to call for an extraction point while Jim was keeping pressure on a gunshot wound in James’ shoulder; Jaq lobbing grenades in the truck’s wake as Dum-Dum shot at the vehicle trying to gain on them. Bucky had been shooting at an approaching tank before it fired that beam weapon of Hydra’s while shouting directions at him of how to drive.

(Afterwards, he’d named the truck, Erik.)

Becca just laughed, “I’ll make sure you know rules of the road so you don’t get us pulled over.” – smiling – “Now, what would you like to listen to? Sonia made a playlist of blues and jazz, and stashed some audio books in the glove department. M even put together a crash-course on Islam at your request.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #There is an actual scene in of the Iron Man movies #where during an interview a reporter has a flip phone #the camera pans away then comes back #and the man has a blackberry #like Tony’s MERE PRESENCE upgraded his phone #this is referencing that #like I KNOW it was just a mess up #but in-verse #it also feels totally plausible #and its also hysterically funny #not to mention that he gets this mildly personally-offended look on his face when looking at out-of-date technology like how DARE it be in his sight   
> #if Tony had a superpower – that wasn’t his ridiculous amounts of money – it WOULD be something like ‘his MERE PRESENCE upgrades technology’ #Tony Stark’s Mere Presence Upgrades Technology  
> #mildly implying that Tony is low-key a technopath

**Author's Note:**

> I (mostly) stopped paying attention after Age of Ultron aside from stand-alones because I just got so ANGRY over how they did my favorite characters dirty, and how they started rushing. I hate it when I can feel how a story tries to get somewhere too quickly - I never fail to be able to point out when a show knows it going to be cancelled and they rush to finish up the major storylines, or when real life issues intersect on the story because something unexpected-in-story happens, and unless they're GOOD, it's hard to make it natural. I REALLY hate time skips generally, because they're rarely done RIGHT - and the events around Civil War could have been done right if they hadn't gone right to Infinity War.  
> I'm going to get off my soapbox now, but first- WHERE IS MY CAPTAIN MARVEL 2?? I CAN fEeL THAT KNOWING WHAT SHE WAS DOING AFTER LEAVING EARTH IS SIGNIFICANT. I CAN fEeL THAT SHE IS THE CONNECTION BETWEEN THE EVENTS OF CA:tFA AND AGENT CARTER, AND THE MODERN SUPERHERO ERA STARTED BY IRON MAN, AND I WANT TO SEE THOSE TIES.  
> Hmm, just WATCH ME make connections MCU alludes to and then chickens out on.


End file.
